


Take Me Home Country Roads

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, DCBB 2015, Demon Dean, Homophobic Language, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 124,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dies with the Mark of Cain on his arm, waking up with black eyes and hellfire licking at his heels.</p><p>Cas, sick on the stolen grace that's rotting inside him, gives chase.</p><p>As his pursuit and Dean's evasion ebbs and flows, they begin to figure out the difference between marks given and marks received, and what it means when one such mark is faded but not forgotten.</p><p>Written for the 2015 DCBB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy. I've been writing this bad boy for six? seven? eight? (let's just say too many) months now. Suffice to say, I'm ready to say goodbye. 
> 
> A note on timelines: this story picks up very vaguely around mid-s9. there are some canon events from later episodes that are tweaked to fit, though.
> 
> Literally the hugest possible thank you of all thank yous to [Kora](http://beenghosting.tumblr.com/) and [Claire](http://mishcollin.tumblr.com/), my long (long, long, long, long, long...) suffering betas. You guys listened to me whine and moan into literal incoherency sometimes, and you both are without equal. This story wouldn't be here if you weren't, and also every single utterance of "goddamn" (there are many) would have been spelled incorrectly. (for the record, any goddamns still spelled incorrectly or any other errors you may happen across are all courtesy of me.) 
> 
> To my beautiful and creative and wonderfully talented artist, [jukebox-head](http://jukebox-head.tumblr.com/), I send you all the heart eyed emojis in the world. What an absolute honor to have you illustrate my words. Check out the art masterpost [here!](http://jukebox-head.livejournal.com/5041.html)
> 
> A big old sappy and gross shout out to squad, who got the full brunt of my endless vague complaining for months upon months and somehow still managed to not kick me to the curb. luv all u sinners, keep up the good work

There’s always a danger of dying on the job. That’s hunter (and Winchester) 101. For every awful, moronic plan the Winchesters have ever had, there was always the possibility that one of them wouldn’t make it out. That they’ve survived this long is, in and of itself, a miracle. Dean’s claimed more than once that he feels like he’s living on borrowed time, that somewhere out there, maybe some poor schmuk got hit by a bus because Dean didn’t get his head ripped off by vampires that day or whatever.  That veers fairly close to the “fate and destiny” train of thought that Dean’s not a big fan of, but he’s never really been able to come up with a better explanation. Facts are facts, and he should have died a long, long time ago.

So it’s with a certain relief that the other shoe has dropped. He’s spent so long with his head on the chopping block that he’s just glad the guillotine has finally let gravity do its good work. Being bent over like that for so long is exhausting, and his knees hurt. _Let them Ned Stark me_ , he thinks woozily, and that’s probably the blood loss talking.

Somewhere off in the distance a door clangs loudly and he thinks he hears someone shouting his name. His mouth is filled with blood, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to answer, regardless. Would he _want_ to answer, if he could? Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s kind of peaceful, actually, despite the bodies littered around him and the cold seeping into him through the column at his back. Below him, the concrete floor is cold. It’s all cold. Of course it is. He’s in another goddamned warehouse, because it always seems to be a goddamned warehouse. Guess the supernatural baddies location department couldn’t string together much of a budget this quarter.

The Mark of Cain has helped with his fighting abilities since he took it on, but even it wasn’t a match for a bunch of pissed off angels. They’re too quick and their blades are too sharp. They managed to break up him, Sam, and Cas by driving them in different directions, but Dean’s not too worried. He got stuck with the bulk of them and Sam and Cas are both good enough to fend for themselves.

The only thing that ticks Dean off, just a _little_ bit? This was no grand slam. This was no Lucifer, or Lilith, or Azazel. It was a bunch of terribly organized angels who fucked around enough to get people hurt, and when the three of them  showed up, they were already angling for a fight. Cas tried his usual “can’t we all just get along” plea, but it’s been working less and less lately, and Dean’s told him more than once to just give it the hell up. Most angels they encounter these days aren’t exactly too pleased to see Cas, or either Winchester.

To add salt to the wound, the angel that finally got him? Got away. As if that’s not a strike to the ego.

But in the end, Dean just doesn’t care. There’s a part of him that’s grateful, actually. At least this way, he doesn’t have to do it himself if it ever came down to it. Not that he’s worried about being turned away at the Pearly Gates or anything, since he figures that option got crossed off the list a long time ago. It would be harder for Sam and Cas though, and he doesn’t want that. It’s just an occupational hazard, right? Where’s his workman’s comp?

A quiet step breaks him out of his thoughts, and then a much closer voice than before says “Dean?”

Cas stands in the doorway, his trench coat splattered with blood and his hair matted to one side of his head. His eyes are wild, blanking out momentarily when they first land on Dean. Dean blinks heavily and watches as Cas takes in the scene in front of him. His expression flits from one emotion to another faster than a flip book. From worry, to surprise, to outright horror. He sprints to Dean, immediately collapsing in front of him. He stares at the blood pulsing out of Dean’s side, and then lifts wide eyes to his face.

Dean musters up a smile, but the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth probably ruins the effect.

“Hey.”

Cas swallows hard as he brings a hand to Dean’s cheek, just barely grazing the skin, just barely trembling. He doesn’t have a lot of grace left, but he _must_ be able to tell that this is it. The blood pool is too big, the wound too deep. Dean’s already done the math. For an almost-angel, it’s just a matter of putting two and mortal flesh wound together.

Dean wants to nestle himself deeper into Cas’ palm, but he’s tired and it hurts to move.

“Dean,” Cas whispers, a soft, desperate thing. Something Dean’s heard in hazy dreams more often than real life.

Cas has a cut above his eyebrow, and Dean reaches out, but aborts the move halfway through, exhausting himself.

“They got you too, huh?” he asks wryly.

Cas looks away for a moment, dropping his hand and using it to cover his eyes. He’s shaking his head minutely.

“Ah, c’mon, Cas, a guy can’t joke on his deathbed?” 

Cas meets his expectant gaze again, eyes watery, face pale.

“Dean…” he repeats, throat working. It takes him a second. “Dean, you’re going to be okay.”

Dean purses his lips and tries to blink away the heat threatening his eyes.

“Nah,” he says simply. “I’m not. I know you can tell. You know the score.”

Cas’ bottom lip trembles, feather light. “I should…  I should…” He trails off before he can even finish the thought. His gaze is continually drawn to the blood soaked patch of Dean’s shirt, and each time he sees it anew he loses focus. “Should I go find Sam?” He  finally asks, fighting to keep his eyes away from the wound. “I don’t want to leave you but-”

This time Dean manages to reach out, though not without a gasp of pain. He grabs Cas’ hand in his and squeezes as tightly as possible.

“No,” Dean says firmly, “No, Sam can’t be here. He’s already seen me go like this once. Hellhounds and all.”

Cas gently squeezes back, like he’s afraid he’s going to speed up the dying process if he clings  too hard.

“Sam would want to be here,” he says, but his voice has a canned, tunnelled quality to it, like he’s somewhere very far away. Steeling himself.

Dean closes his eyes.

“No,” he says. “You won’t find him in time anyway, and…” He groans in pain, dropping his free hand to his side, fingers sticky with blood. “Fuck, Cas, I don’t want you to leave me.”

Cas drops his hand.

“Cas-”

Cas holds out a palm to stop him, taking a deep breath. He closes his eyes for just a moment, and his whole face transforms. Every etch of emotion is wiped from it, every line smoothed out.  When he opens his eyes, Dean may as well be staring at the stone faced angel he met in a barn all those years ago.

“I need you to keep still,” Cas orders, going full-on heaven’s wrath. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to fix this.”

Pity washes over Dean. He knows from experience that it’s a lot easier being the one dying than the one being died on.

“You know it’s not going to work,” Dean says softly. “You don’t have enough juice.”

Cas ignores him, shrugging off his trench coat and suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Dean watches the grace jump behind Cas’ eyes, white blue and electric, but it’s closer to static shock than lightning.

“Don’t waste it,” Dean pleads. “Don’t waste it on me, Cas.”

That seems to steel Cas further, and his movements are all sharp lines until he actually gets near Dean, when he softens, almost unconsciously. He gently lifts Dean’s hand off his wound, holding it for a moment longer than necessary and letting his thumb linger only a too brief second across Dean’s palm.

“I told you to stay still,” he says harshly, and Dean ignores for both their sakes how his voice breaks.

Cas places gentle hands on the wound and Dean hisses.

“It needs to be concentrated physical contact,” Cas explains, only allowing a hint of an apology into his voice. “With my current… deficits… this is the most prudent way to do things.”

“Ay ay, Captain,” Dean says weakly. It won’t take long for Cas to admit that there’s nothing he can do. His stolen grace has been waning, the circles under his eyes growing more prominent. Dean saw it once, briefly, way back during the days of the apocalypse. Even if Cas refuses to admit the score, Dean’s been keeping track. 

Cas focuses, closing his eyes again and adding slight pressure to the wound. Dean doesn’t bother to follow suit, leaving his eyes wide open as he stares at Cas’ hands on him. Normally any manifestation of Cas’ grace is enough to blind someone, but Dean already knows it’s not going to work. Besides, if he gets blinded  who the hell cares, right? He’s just gonna die anyways.

The Mark has been pulsating softly on his arm, and that’s one more thing to take out of this whole shitshow. At least he’ll be free of that for good and whatever the fuck it was planning on doing to him. He flips his arm around so he doesn’t have to look at it.

The pressure on his wound continues, but there’s not even a spark coming from Cas. More blood pools up around his hands and overflows onto the ground, but Cas soldiers on like the soldier he is, suddenly blind to the fact that Dean was a lost cause long before he got here. Dean’s seen some futile endeavors in his life, but this one may well be the saddest.

“Cas,” he says quietly.

“Shut up, Dean.”

Dean can feel himself fading, and he’ll be damned if his last moments alive are going to be spent with Cas being a stubborn bastard.

“Cas, give it up.”

“ _Shut up, Dean_.”

Dean musters the energy for one more act of reaching out, resting a hand over the backs of Cas’ desperate ones.

“Cas, stop,” he says softly.

Cas doesn’t look up right away, and Dean watches a tear fall into the blood pool.

Slowly, Cas brings his hands up and fists them in the front of Dean’s shirt. Still without making eye contact, he rests his forehead on Dean’s chest, back trembling.

“Please don’t leave me,” he mumbles into Dean’s shirt, and Dean feels a tear or two of his own slip out.

“Hey,” he says into Cas’ hair, joking softly, “My eyes are up here.”

Cas finally meets his gaze, his face wet.

“Y’know,” Dean says, “If I could move my arms right now, I’d do that dumb thing they do in the movies where they wipe the other person’s tears away.”

Cas sniffs.

“I’ve never seen a movie like that,” he admits, finding Dean’s hand again and intertwining their fingers.

“You should watch one,” Dean smiles weakly, “You’d probably dig the sappy shit.”

Cas makes a horrible choking sound, putting his free hand on his knee to steady himself.

“Last I checked,” he manages, “It was you who preferred those kinds of movies.”

Dean huffs a laugh, and it hurts.

“Shhh,” he stage whispers, “That’s a secret.”

With their other hands still entwined, Cas takes his hand off his knee and brings it to Dean’s face, his thumb catching the moisture dotting Dean’s bottom eyelashes. Dean can feel the streaks of blood Cas’ fingers leave behind.

“If you can’t do it for me, I can do it for you,” Cas promises, his voice trembling. He leans his forehead against Dean’s.

“Better late than never, right?” Dean mumbles, his vision starting to blur. He feels his grip loosen on Cas’ hand.

“Dean,” Cas whispers, using both hands now to cradle Dean’s face. “Dean, _please_.”  He chokes on the words, and he catches the last of Dean’s tears.

The last thing Dean hears before the lights go out is Cas, murmuring against his lips, “Stay with me, please. I love you I love you I love you-”

***

Cas doesn't remember much after that. Everything had gone very, very quiet.

He didn't think it was possible for things to be quieter than after he got cut off from heaven, but then again, he's never had his best friend die in his arms before. There was the time he spent with Naomi, being groomed to kill Dean, but that was nothing- absolutely _nothing_ \- compared to what it felt like when the real Dean finally slipped away right in front of him.

Sam eventually found him, covered in blood and still on the floor, Dean's head in his lap. From across the room, Cas watched Sam's face completely drain of color as he stopped in his tracks.

"... Dean?" He finally asked, voice so small it didn't even echo. He was looking at Cas, though. He knew.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Cas managed to say, because he owed Sam that much at least. His words sounded far, far away. His voice wasn't connected to his body.

Cas thinks Sam had to drag him away from Dean, though he doesn’t remember putting up much of a fight. Somehow, he ended up in the back of the Impala, and Dean’s head ended up in his lap again.

Sam was driving, and he didn’t say a thing all the way back to Lebanon. The car smelled like lighter fluid, and it was only later that Cas realized Sam must have burned the other bodies. Dean always warned him about never being sloppy with the cleanup.

“You don’t want your fingerprints on file,” he had said ominously. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Cas had said, with probably a little too much sincerity for the situation at hand.

Dean had blinked a couple times, shook his head, and then continued like nothing had happened.

Cas ran his fingers through Dean’s hair on the drive home. There were dried bits of blood in it, and he made sure to get rid of it all. Sam’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

About halfway home, a very quiet voice broke through his own internal wall of silence and said to Cas, _it’s your fault_.

“I’m sorry I was sloppy,” Cas whispers, pressing his forehead to Dean’s.

***

They lie Dean out on his bed in the bunker, and stand at the foot of it. Sam stares at his brother’s corpse, face made of stone.

“Is there a way?” he asks Cas in a monotone, not taking his eyes off Dean.

 “A way to what?”

“To fix it. To bring him back.”

They aren’t looking at each other. They’re speaking to each other through a dead man.

“Not that I know of,” Cas says flatly. He’s removed Dean’s plaid and thrown it somewhere in the room, and he wants to get the rest of the bloody clothes off him, but finds himself hesitating. Dean already looks so naked in just a t-shirt and jeans. His socked feet make it hard for Cas to swallow.

“And you don’t have the juice,” Sam states. “To fix it.”

“No.”

Sam nods once.

“I’m going to go dig a grave,” he says. “We’re not burning him.”

“Okay.”

Sam takes a long time to respond, and even though he’s not looking at Cas, Cas can feel his eyes on him.

“An angel brought him back before. Who knows. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

It’s mean to sting, Cas thinks, but he doesn’t feel it. He says nothing in reply, and Sam eventually leaves the room.

There’s a chair at Dean’s desk, and Cas pulls it up next to the bed, sitting close enough that he could touch Dean if he wanted. He could, but he doesn’t.

He feels numb. Immune. Sterile. This is similar to what he felt all those years ago, before he decided he was on the wrong side of the war. When Dean shoved a knife into his heart the first time they met, he felt nothing.

It’s still a knife, it’s still a heart, and he still feels nothing.

He’s closer to human than angel at the moment, but human grief is a slow, sinuous thing. It moves through him like a glacier, mobile but unwilling. He doesn’t know what to do, or how to close the gaping hole that seems to have developed somewhere around his center.

As for the guilt… well. If he’s sure about anything, he’s sure about that. It will come. He can feel it already, stirring against the confines of his ribcage.

He brushes one of his knuckles against Dean’s own, and  it’s still warm. He could be sleeping. God knows Dean’s come back to the bunker more than once too tired to change out of his blood splattered clothes. That Cas or Sam would have to pull his boots off and turn off the bedroom light on their way out. If Cas was still around in the morning, Dean would inevitably stumble out of his room and into the library, blearily asking where his boots went. Cas would point silently towards the bunker entrance, and every time, there his boots were.

Now, they lie on the floor at the foot of the bed, like Dean had no one to come home to, kicking off his boots in a fit of exhaustion, not worrying where they landed.

Cas stands, and gathers the boots. He brings them to the shoe mat by the bunker’s entrance, lining them up with more care than he ever has. He looks down at his own scuffed dress shoes, and considers for a moment before taking them off and lining them up next to Dean’s. He rarely takes his shoes off when visiting, even though Dean would grumble about scuff marks. It wasn’t anything personal. He just wasn’t around often enough or long enough to bother.   

Cas returns to Dean’s room, returns to his vigil.

“I don’t know what to do,” Cas says simply, as if he and Dean are sitting across the table from each other in the library, “I begged you not to die, and you died anyway.” He blinks rapidly. “Where do we go from here? I don’t… I don’t…” Cas closes his eyes and presses a palm to his forehead, letting out a shuddering sigh. “I don’t know what to do,” he repeats.

There’s always been something to do. Knowledge to gain. Tasks to be completed.

But this is nothing. There is nothing to do.  

Years ago, when Sam jumped into the Cage and all that was left was a bruised and battered Dean kneeling in an empty field, Cas healed him, showed up in the Impala and exchanged some impersonal words, and then left for what he thought was forever. If Raphael had never attempted to restart the apocalypse, Cas may have never come back to earth.

He was never sure why that happened the way it did. He had worked with Bobby and the Winchesters as brothers in arms, as comrades, to stop the apocalypse. He rebelled against everything he ever knew all because he believed in Dean Winchester. He was prepared to see the battle through to the very end, and he did.

And that was the problem. It ended.

Apparently, Cas isn’t very good at endings.

It makes sense. He’s an angel, and angels aren’t supposed to end.

His very nature is to move, to be mobile. To be in more than one place at once, on more than one plane at once. He knows he always came across like he had a stick up his ass, as Dean so often put it. As still. Unmoving. But that was only to the naked eye. Before he learned about stillness, he was controlled chaos. Both the eye of the hurricane and the hurricane itself.

It was Dean who taught him. About being quiet. About silence.

A glance shared across a bed after a bad dream. A mutual silence on a park bench. A stare held under a sputtering streetlamp in the middle of a junk yard. That tiny spark of remembrance that Emmanuel pretended he never had. Nights in purgatory spent with backs against trees, Benny on watch on the other side of the camp.

 After Stull, Sam was gone. Dean had promised he would go to Lisa’s. There was supposed to be a new order to things, and Cas just didn’t fit into it. It was an ending, and he was prepared to make his exit, despite the way he always found his gaze lingering on Dean. 

Then there was the war in heaven. The souls. Absorbing Sam’s hell trauma. There was purgatory, and even though Dean was the one who technically left, that’s just semantics. Cas was always ready to walk to through that final door.

All these years he’s been making exits, and he’s finally stuck. There’s nowhere he can go that this won’t follow. There’s nothing he can do that will ease this ache in his chest. He’s finally realized, much too late in the game, that running away isn’t going to solve anything.

“I’m sorry,” Cas mumbles, interlocking his fingers and resting his elbows on the edge of Dean’s bed. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s fallen to his knees, head bowed, praying. Not to any deity in particular, not to any angels who still may be able to hear him, but to Dean. Not _for_ Dean. _To_ him.

Against his will, he falls asleep with his head half on the bed, nestled in the crook of his elbow.

He dreams of strange things, of hazy limbs and dark eyes and thick fog.


	2. Chapter 2

So Dean died.

Shit happens, right?

So Dean wakes up a demon.

More shit. More happening.

If you think about it, he’s caught a break. He didn't have to spend years having his soul flayed in hell- well, he _did_ , but, semantics- for it to happen. He just up and died, and whomp, there it is. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Conscience gone, angst gone, charm intact. It's like he hit the mid- life crisis lottery.

He wakes up in his own bed and at first it’s just _strange_. He stares at the ceiling and waits for the feeling that’s been following him around for the last, oh, his entire life, to resignedly settle over him like it always does, but then-

-well, fuck, that’s the kicker. It doesn’t.

Dean doesn’t wake up ready to die. He doesn’t wake up _wanting_ to die.

Maybe he got all the dying out of his system when he actually died. Who knows.

It’s weird that he immediately _knows_ what he is. He’s never had that kind of clarity before. Before, he was Dean the Michael Sword, or Dean in Suburbia, or Dean Keeping It All Together Because The World’s About to Go to Shit Again. But now he’s just Dean the Demon. It has a nice ring to it, alliteration and all.

He raises a hand in front of his face, but it doesn’t look any different. It’s just a hand attached to a body. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Cas, asleep in what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable position, arms and torso on the bed and knees on the floor, like he fell asleep mid-prayer. Dean eases himself carefully into a sitting position- the last thing he wants to do is jostle Cas awake. He quietly slides off the bed, and holds his breath through force of habit when Cas stirs slightly. Luckily, he stays asleep, and Dean, idly wondering if he should drape a blanket over the poor bastard or something, takes his leave.

On his way down the hall, he peeks into Sam’s room. The door is open a crack, the light off. Dean carefully slides inside, surveying the empty room. Sam’s bed is rumpled, recently slept in, and his dresser drawers are all open, clothes strewn across the floor. On a hunch, Dean drops to his hands and knees and looks under the bed, which, yep. Sam’s duffel is gone, which means he’s gone as well.

Pros of this discovery: one less person in the bunker to avoid.

Cons of this discovery: it’s very likely that when Dean goes looking for the Impala, he won’t find it.

Dean stands up, catching his tongue between his teeth in contemplation. He has no idea how long Sam is going to be gone, or how much longer Cas will be asleep. Sam better have a good explanation for disappearing mere hours after his brother dies tragically.

Dean’s about to turn around and leave when something buzzes under one of the piles of clothes on the floor. Curious, he digs it out.

It’s Sam’s phone, lighting up with a text from Charlie. Dean briefly wonders if Sam’s somehow been kidnapped, losing his phone in the struggle, but quickly scraps the idea- no kidnapper would give Sam time to pack a bag, and they certainly wouldn’t let him take that ugly ass button up that he inevitably brings on every hunt.

**hey, dean told me he’d let me know how the rogue angel thing went but he hasnt texted me back yet. dont tell me you guys let a bunch of lame angels pull one over on you.**

 

Dean snorts as he leaves the room, tossing the phone over his shoulder so that it lands with a small bounce on Sam’s bed. That’s one text she’s probably going to regret, if anyone even tells her. With the current sorry state of the bunker’s occupants at the moment, not even they might know his supposedly dead body just up and walked away in the middle of the night for at least a couple days.

He closes Sam’s door behind him, and heads for the kitchen. He’s not 100% sure if he needs to eat anymore, but he decides to refrain from making something regardless, just in case the smell wafts back down the hallway towards Cas. Out of morbid curiosity, he opens the corner cupboard and grabs the salt shaker, eyeing it dubiously. He holds his hand out over the counter, and shakes a couple grains into his palm.

The reaction is immediate, and he hisses loudly, small tendrils of steam rising from where the salt landed on him. He shakes his hand to get rid of the stray crystals, unimpressed and annoyed. This will highly diminish his well-honed roadside diner palate. Ruby had a thing for French fries, though. Maybe if the salt is cooked in, it nullifies the adverse effects. Dean has no idea. He’s not a scientist. Technically, he could just eat through the pain. His dalliance with torturing Alastair at Cas’ request all those years ago certainly proved that even unholy amounts of salt couldn’t actually kill a demon.

What about the ocean, Dean wonders. If he drives to Maine right now, will he be able to step foot in the Atlantic? Is he going to have to avoid crossing over any bodies of salt water just in case of emergency?

He returns the salt to its original spot and adds “visit the ocean” to his mental to-do list that he’s been idly cultivating for years. A small smile creeps onto his face when he realizes he’s actually going to be able to do these things now. Though to be fair, the only thing that was stopping him from doing these things as a human was himself.

Now, though, Dean can do whatever he wants. It’s like someone took a specialized angst vacuum, stuck it up his ass, and set it to its highest function. All that darkness that used to be inside him is just _gone_. Not pushed away to the periphery like he used to do, not waiting in the wings to ambush him at his first sign of weakness. He just _is_. He feels lighter.

He almost starts whistling before he remembers where he is.

He’s going to have to steal Cas’ car. He also needs the First Blade- the Mark of Cain, which Dean had honestly completely forgotten about until now, pulses hotly at the thought- and he would prefer not to start anew in a shirt covered in the blood he died by.

The Blade and a change of clothes are back in his room, so he sets about searching for Cas’ car keys first. Cas is a disorganized bastard if Dean ever saw one, but he also has great spatial recognition skills, meaning he’s most likely running a constant stream of maps and possible locations of desired items at all times. For Dean, this means Cas’ keys could be in an almost infinite number of places in a space as big as the bunker. Once, he managed to spot one of Cas’ socks hanging off one of the twelve foot tall bookshelves in the library. Cas had come into the room shortly after without even acknowledging him, rolling the ladder over and climbing it, plucking the sock off like it was no big deal, and leaving the room, the dangling sock the last thing to whip around the corner as he disappeared further into the bunker. Dean had just stared at the time.

Now he sort of knows what to expect. He checks all of Cas’ favorite car key depositories, including on top of the TV in the living room and hanging off the temperature knob of his favorite shower stall in the shower room. He hits the jackpot when he returns to the kitchen and finds them in the bread box.

Dean takes the time to scrawl a quick note. He attaches it to the fridge with a tacky Las Vegas magnet they somehow managed to acquire, and works his way back towards his room.

Cas is in the same place he left him, which Dean counts as a win. He’s about to snatch some clothes from the closet when he finds himself stopping for no real reason, just standing in the doorway of his room, staring. He looks at his desk, at his pile of records and his weapons mounted on the wall. He looks at his bed, at his chair, at Cas.   

Dean’s known a lot of demons in his time to some extent or another. He knows that some of them even create family units, like Azazel. Somewhere under all the leather and snark, he thinks Meg maybe even had an emotion or two in all the years he had known her.

Demons are created when a soul is flayed in hell. They’re created out of desperation, when a soul can no longer take the pain of whatever atrocities are inflicted on it.

But then what? When they manage to crawl their way topside, what are they supposed to do? Any ability for them to process the trauma has been stripped away. Really, it makes a hell of a lot of sense why demons are the way they are. Self-serving and probably looking to deal out a little of the pain they had  to endure- Dean didn’t have to wait till he got out of hell for that.

So it doesn’t surprise Dean that he’s not suddenly frothing at the mouth and ready to slit Cas’ throat while he sleeps. Sure he doesn’t want to wake him up either, but that’s more for practical reasons than anything. Cas probably wouldn’t be too on board with his new state of being. Besides, he looks exhausted. Dean can see the humanity creeping in at the edges.

Dean fishes some t-shirts and jeans out of his closet, eyeing the Blade above the bed the entire time. There’s a subtle tug in his gut every time he looks at it, like a muted itch under his skin that can only be satiated by the Blade itself. It’s a little closer to Cas than he wants, but once he has everything else ready to go, he carefully makes his way over, pleasantly surprised to find demonism lends him a lighter tread. When he plucks the Blade off the wall and wraps his fingers around the hilt, his palms tingle in anticipation. He tucks it into the back of his jeans, enjoying how it feels against his bare skin. The teeth bump along the ridges of his spine. Dean quickly changes shirts and tosses his clothes into his duffel, dropping his bloody outfit in the hamper on his way out. He throws his duffel over his shoulder and is about to leave, when something occurs to him. He stops once more in the doorway, hesitating.

He looks back, at where his phone lays on his nightstand. Initially, he wasn’t going to take it. He knows where the bunker is. Pay phones exist.

There’s a strange feeling spreading through him as he walks over and picks it up, opening up his camera. He doesn’t have any pictures on his phone that aren’t case documents or the ones Cas sends him of whatever he’d decided to send that day. Among all the land deeds and scraps of ancient languages, there’s a sunset or a squirrel or the sign of a diner Cas promises Dean would really enjoy. Cas never sends Dean pictures of himself- really, why would he?- and Dean’s never taken a picture of Cas except for when he was making him another fake ID.

So Dean takes a picture of Cas. It’s not a good one. The lighting is terrible and all he can see is the top of Cas’ head, but it’ll do.

He heads for the entrance to the garage, jingling Cas’ keys as he goes.

This is it, he thinks as he steps over the threshold. This is-

He stops. Not because he wants to, but because he just ran into an invisible wall.

“Oh, fuck,” he says out loud, realizing. Even though he knows it’s fruitless, he tries to back up, head back down the hallway. He gets about five feet before he’s stopped again, another barrier having popped up behind him.

He shakes his head in resignation, dropping his duffel bag onto the floor. He walks around the perimeter of the trap, running his fingers along the invisible barrier.

The bunker is outfitted with invisible devil’s traps at all entrances, courtesy of a friendly witch from the 40s, apparently. Dean and Sam didn’t even know about them until they tried to drag Crowley’s sorry ass into the dungeon, and then had to spend the better part of a day learning how to undo an invisible devil’s trap so he wouldn’t be perpetually stuck in their front entrance for the rest of eternity. It was a huge hassle trying to assemble the ingredients for the reversal spell, but according to the journals they found, it was the only option.

He never had to think about them before, and he’s fucking pissed that he walked into it. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down, because if he starts throwing shit now, Cas is probably going to hear-

“ _Who are you_?” is called down the dark hallway, and Dean sighs, putting his hands up.

“Yeesh, how long has it been since I died? A couple hours and you forget about me already?” Dean asks, and silence floods the hallway like they’ve suddenly been plunged to the bottom of the ocean.

The lights flick on. Cas has a gun pointed straight at him, but his eyes are wide and his aim is shaky. When he sees that the thing at the end of the hallway really is Dean, his face pales and he looks like he’s about to throw up.

“Dean?” he breathes, gun falling to the floor with a clatter. “Dean, you’re- I woke up and you weren’t there-”

Dean holds out his arms, the Blade bumping pointedly against his back.

“As I live and breathe,” he says.

Cas starts towards him, smile growing on his face, and Dean thinks, _oh, that’s too bad_. It’s a rookie mistake, getting too caught up in the reunion to realize anything’s wrong.

When Cas is a couple feet away, Dean takes pity and holds out a hand.

“You should probably stay there,” he says.

Cas stops, and Dean sees the first flicker of _something’s not right_ in in his expression.

Dean makes a pained face. “Ahhhhh,” he says, “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually fall for it.”

“Dean-”

It’s the first time Dean knowingly switches his eyes to black, and Cas shuts right up. It feels a little weird, kind of like a film has been pulled over his vision. It doesn’t change the view he gets of Cas’ expression, though. The way his mouth drops open just a little, the horrified look in his eyes. The step back. He stares at Dean in stunned silence.

Dean shrugs.

“On the bright side, it was either dying or this,” he says casually. “I chose door number two.”

“The Mark,” Cas says quietly, realization dawning as his eyes fall to Dean’s forearm. Dean waves at him with the hand in question.

“I would say,” he smiles.

Cas swallows hard, eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This is impossible,” he murmurs. “You were dead.”

“I was,” Dean agrees. “But I guess the Mark just couldn’t quite let go of such a juicy host.”

“You died in my arms,” Cas says numbly. “I had your blood all over my hands.”

Dean tsks.

“Them’s the breaks, right?” he says, mock-sympathetic. “What can ya do.”

Cas takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, but Dean’s still pretty sure a brisk gust of wind could bowl him over.

“We can fix this,” Cas says. “The third trial, curing a demon, we can try ag-”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, walking right up to the edge of the devil’s trap. “That’s not an option.”

Cas looks at him, horrified.

“That’s the _only_ option, Dean.”

Dean pulls the Blade out of his waistband and mimes stabbing it into his chest.

“Not quite the only way to go,” he teases, waggling his eyebrows. He drops the Blade into his palm, smoothing a hand over it. “But I doubt you’re considering that option this early in the game.”

Cas shakes his head minutely, face pained.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says softly.

Dean taps the Blade with a knuckle.

“And that’s why I love you, ya knucklehead,” he says cheerfully. “Now, can you do me a favor and get me the hell out of this devil’s trap?”

Cas’ eyes narrow very slightly.

“Where were you planning on going?” he asks suspiciously.

 “Oh… y’know.” Dean waves a hand in a vague gesture. “I would’ve been around.”

“No. You need to stay here. Let Sam and I figure this out.”

Dean barks laughter, eyes blinking back and forth between green and black for a couple seconds like demonic traffic lights.

“Sam?” he asks, “Sam has left the building, man. Duffel bag gone, Impala gone. Even left his phone behind.”

“Sam wouldn’t-” Cas starts.

“-Sam _did_ ,” Dean interrupts harshly. Then, dismissively, “Maybe he hit another dog.”

Cas looks around wildly, his eyes roving the hallway for a solution.

“Fine,” Cas amends, “ _I’ll_ find a way to fix it. We’ll work together on this.”

“That’s not what I said, Cas,” Dean purrs. “I _said_ , I want you to get me the fuck out of this devil’s trap and let me go on my merry way.”

“What are you planning to do?” Cas asks. “What is your goal here, Dean?”

“Last I checked, that was none of your beeswax, buddy.”

“I don’t-” Cas still looks like he’s seeing a ghost, face white and throat working. “You fight demons. You’re not one of them.”

“Do I need to do the black eyed party trick again? I don’t want to wear it out.”

“ _No_. Demons are souls that have been flayed in hell, that have been stripped raw, that never made it out.” Cas steps forward now, almost close enough for Dean to reach. “You made it out, Dean,” he says. “You made it out, and I rebuilt you, piece by piece.”

Dean leans forward as far as he can, emphatically taps his temple.

“What aren’t you getting?” he asks. “Where is this no-comprendo virgin angel stuff coming from, man? You know the score. You know what I am.”

“It’s not who you are.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“This is why I didn’t wake you up,” he complains. “Who the fuck wants to be after school special’d first thing after they wake up as a demon.”

“Stop.” Cas holds out a hand. “You know I’m not going to let you out of that trap, so give it up.”

Dean figures it’s time to bring out the big guns.

“Cas,” he says quietly, trying really really hard to sound like the old him. “Cas, man, I’m fine, I promise. I won’t even pose a flight risk, I swear.” He drops his voice a little lower, smiles inwardly when Cas moves forward so he can hear, the poor, naïve bastard. He tries to concentrate on the Blade in his hand. “It’s just, when I woke up like this… I felt good,” he says sincerely. “I felt… well, this is gonna sound counterintuitive, but I felt like a person again.. For the first time in years.”

Cas meets his gaze, and Dean never really let himself think about those blue eyes before, but he’s sure as hell thinking about them now.

“Dean, you may feel okay at the moment, but once the Mark gets a hold of you- and I mean really gets a hold of you, the consequences are-”

“I’ve taken the road more dangerous before,” Dean reminds him. “In fact-”

His blood surges under his skin, hot and fast and pumping through his veins hard enough he swears he can feel the movement beneath the Mark. He thrusts out a hand, feels the power in his palm as he watches Cas get knocked back almost the full length of the hallway, landing in a heap at the end.

Riding the high, Dean holds the Blade tight enough that his palm sweats, channels whatever new demon mojo he’s got all into the Blade, and drives it straight down into the floor where the edge of the devil’s trap lies. The impact reverberates through his whole body, making his teeth rattle and his bones shift, but the Mark keeps him together. He yanks the knife out of the floor with a loud, wooden crack, staring at the weapon in his hand in awe.

“Cool,” he says, tucking it back away.

He double checks that Cas is alive- he is- and not bleeding profusely from anywhere- he isn’t- so he calls it a day and leaves the guy to have some well-earned if forcibly induced rest.

***

Cas opens his eyes and everything is blurry. He tries to roll over, but there’s a throbbing pain in his side, and when he presses that spot just under his ribcage, he feels more than sees the bruise that’s in the process of blossoming. Gingerly, he pulls himself into a sitting position so that his back is against the wall, looking straight down the hallway towards where the devil’s trap is.

With a dull pang, he realizes it’s empty.

Pulling himself up, he hobbles towards it. The only thing Dean left behind was a hole in the floor the shape of the Blade, and Cas grimaces as he runs his fingers over the indentations he assumes were made by the side with all the teeth on it.

He’s trying to be pragmatic, here. He used to be exceptionally good at it.

This is a hunt, he tells himself. You know how to hunt.

The only difference of course, being that he’s not looking to kill the thing he’s after. He’s looking to save it.

***

Cas drags himself to the kitchen because he can’t remember the last time he ate, and eating is a thing he has to do now. Especially since his regular digesting of food will give him the necessary energy to both locate and track Dean down, wherever he may go.

Cas doesn’t notice the note until he’s standing directly in front of the fridge, his eyes unfocused and his mind a million miles away. When he recognizes Dean’s handwriting, he pulls back sharply to read it.

 

_On a beer run_

_-D_

_Ps just kidding, im a demon.  I probably will buy some beer though._

 

For a long time, Cas just stares at it. That’s still Dean’s blocky scrawl, the same tone of his notes, the same tails on his letters. If Cas wasn’t the wiser, he would have assumed this was all just some terrible prank cooked up by Dean. Instead, he delicately plucks the note off the fridge and systematically rips it in half, and then rips those halves in halves, and he continues this until he can’t rip any more, until he’s sunk down at the kitchen table with his head in his arms, covered in small pieces of notebook paper that lay in his hair like freshly fallen snow.

***

Sam took his laptop with him wherever he went, so Cas has to make due with Dean’s older model. All attempts to contact Sam have been unsuccessful, and the most Cas can surmise from his abrupt departure is that Sam must have found some sort of lead and followed up immediately. It doesn’t explain why he left his phone behind, or why he didn’t tell Cas, but of the two Winchesters, Dean is his top priority right now.

Sam’s phone is sitting beside him on the library table, contact list open. Cas has been trying to research at least a couple of these names, because he’s afraid calling the wrong person and saying the wrong thing may lead to more harm than good. Of course, most of Sam’s contacts are either only a first name, or in the case of doubles, a first name and last initial.

Obviously, Cas has tried to contact Dean. So far he’s left him six messages and more than a few texts. Unsurprisingly, he’s received no answers. He habitually checks his phone, at least once every five minutes, but his inbox remains empty. He knows of a few of the Winchesters’ more regular friends and contacts, but the only ones he actually knew are now dead. There’s a Garth, he knows. But Dean told him Garth is a werewolf now, trying to lay low and stay out of the spotlight. Cas doesn’t doubt that some creatures deserve to live, and he’s not questioning Dean’s choice, but he doesn’t think a kind-of angel and a werewolf tracking down a rogue demon is necessarily the best combination for them, or for any hunters out there looking for work.

There’s a woman named Charlie the Winchesters met a couple years ago, who Dean seems especially keen on. He’s told Cas more than once that Charlie’s been dying to meet him, but they’ve never seemed to have the time, or his work with the angels pulled him away, or for any other number of reasons. He muddles over this thought for a moment, that sometimes, some things never happen because they don’t have the time, can’t find the time, or just won’t make the time. There’s always one kind of apocalypse or another. Someone has an obligation somewhere else. Circumstances change.

Cas sighs as he scrolls through the contact list again, but there’s no one named Charlie here. She must be under a false name. He exits the list, and his eyes lock once again on the icon in the top left of the phone screen, where the little speech bubble sits, “messages” written under it. Despite the dire circumstances, he initially hesitated to look through Sam’s texts, if only because he knows how important privacy is for humans. He himself has kept his fair share of secrets over the years as well, so he’s no stranger to it either.

But the contacts list gave him nothing. Sam isn’t here. No one is here.

Cas has to do this alone.

He’s about to click the “messages” icon when the phone vibrates in his hand, and he drops it onto the table in surprise. At first he thinks it’s a text message, but then the phone continues to vibrate, and Cas realizes someone is calling Sam. He looks at the screenname: Brad Berry.

He swipes his thumb to the right, answering the call, and holds it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s a blunt silence on the other end.

“Um, hi?” A woman says. “Is this Sam’s phone?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not Sam.”

“I’m a friend of Sam’s. He’s currently… unavailable.”

There’s a longer silence this time.

“Uhhh,” she says, “You know that sounds like you have him tied up somewhere, right? Like you’re holding him captive or something.”

“I’m not holding Sam captive,” Cas says, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment to frown quizzically at it. 

“Okay, then who are you?” Cas barely hears the question, and quickly brings the phone back up to his ear.

“My name is Cas,” he says.

Another silence, but this one is loaded.

“Cas as in… Castiel?” she asks quietly. “Dreamy. Ruffled vibe. Hottie of the lord Castiel?”

“Um… Yes?”

There’s a clatter on the other end of the line, like she’s dropped her phone, and it sounds like she’s scrambling to pick it up. Cas can hear her saying, “holy fuck” multiple times in the background.

“Cas?” she’s back on the line, breathing hard. “Wow, I have to admit, I was beginning to think Dean had made you up. He talks about you a lot but always made excuses when we were finally supposed to meet, so I guess I figured you were like, his imaginary friend or something?”

Cas is too bemused to say anything at first, and then, slowly, “I assure you I am not imaginary.”

“Whoa… Sorry, this is really blowing my mind right now.”

“Any chance you could tell me who you are?”

“Oh! Right, sorry. I’m Charlie.”

This time it’s Cas stunned into silence. He’s been lukewarm on the idea of divine signs for a long time, but this is a very strange coincidence.

“Your name is Brad Berry in Sam’s phone,” he eventually says, because he’s still trying to process this.

Charlie laughs at that.

“Yeah,” she says, “Charlie Bradbury. Brad. Berry. It’s not my real name, but it was the one I was going by when I met Sam and Dean.”

“Right,” Cas says, “Of course.”

“So, hey,” Charlie says, sounding more serious now, “It’s great to finally get to talk to you and all, but I was actually calling to check in on Sam and Dean-- and you too of course,” she adds hastily. “Dean told me about the group of angels you were going after and I asked him to text me when they were finished, but he never did. Then I texted Sam, and he didn’t text back either. I mean,” more hopeful, now, “You’re back, so I assume things went okay?

Cas hesitates a moment too long, and it’s too obvious to ignore.

“Oh my god please don’t tell me something happened,” she pleads into the phone. “Cas, please tell me they’re alright.”

Cas makes a hasty- and probably terrible- decision.

“They’re fine,” he rushes out, and Charlie exhales in relief on the other line. “There was… a problem. But no one died,” he assures her, and silently hopes that last word didn’t twist its way off his tongue. He lied to Sam and Dean for an entire year about the souls from purgatory, he thinks desperately. This can’t be much different.  

“A problem?” Charlie prompts, worry leaking back into her voice.

“Dean… took off,” Cas says, which is, of course, true. “After the hunt.” That’s also true.

“Took off?” Charlie asks. “What do you mean? Like, ran away from home?”

“He’s been having a tough time lately,” Cas hedges. True. “I think after the angels, it all just felt like a little too much.”

“Hold on,” Charlie interrupts dubiously, “You’re telling me that Dean Winchester, what, strapped a handkerchief full of underwear onto a broom stick and walked off into the sunset?” Her voice grows suspicious. “You’re not Cas,” she says. “There _is_ something funky going on here and you _do_ have the Winchesters tied to chairs in the basement, don’t you?”

Cas puts a hand over his face, trying to think of a quick way to implement damage control. Charlie knows a lot about him, that much is obvious. He didn’t realize Dean talked about him that much, but maybe there’s a way he can play this to his advantage. He thinks about everything he knows about Charlie, what Dean’s told him and what he can extrapolate from that to help him convince Charlie that- well, not that he’s telling the truth, because he’s not- but at least that he is who he says he is.  

There’s one other thing that Dean has told him about Charlie, in complete confidence. It was after a long, exhausting week of hunting hidebehinds in the northern Minnesota woods a couple months ago, and they had just gotten back from over a ten hour drive. Sam immediately called it a night, disappearing into the bunker. Dean, looking like he was about to fall asleep on the spot, gestured for Cas to follow him. They ended up in the den, sitting on either end of the couch Dean and Sam had picked up from the thrift store the first week they moved in, an ugly, overstuffed thing with uncomfortable lumps and bumps.

Dean hadn’t said anything to him for probably the last hour or so, all communication done in silent gestures and looks. Now, he had his head in his hands, slowly running them through his hair, sighing heavily.

“I’m so goddamned tired,” he mumbled roughly, and despite the dark shadows under his eyes and his wan face, Cas had a feeling he wasn’t talking about all the hits he’d suffered at the hands of the hidebehinds or the lack of sleep he got in the cheap motel they had stayed at.

Cas didn’t say anything to that, just sat quietly and waited to see if Dean was going to elaborate.     

He ran a hand over his face again, and Cas watched carefully at the way Dean’s fingers caught at his skin, the way it stretched the freckles over the bridge of his nose and pulled down the corners of his mouth. He leaned back against the arm of the couch, thumbs pressed hard into the center of his forehead as if he was trying to stave off an oncoming migraine, and stretched out his legs, leaving his knees bent and toes mere inches from touching Cas’ thigh. Cas didn’t move, and tried to pretend he couldn’t feel the heat emanating from Dean.

For a while, they just sat there, the two of them. They didn’t talk or touch or even communicate, really. Cas looked at Dean more often than Dean looked at him, probably because Dean’s eyes were closed for almost the full time. Cas leaned back against the cushion, trying to find a comfortable place to lay his head, but that couch hadn’t stood the test of time well. No matter the position he tried, it was too lumpy, too soft, not right. Without consciously thinking about it, his mind drifted to the soft expanse of Dean’s stomach.

When it looked like Dean had fallen asleep in perhaps the most uncomfortable position known to man, Cas softly jostled his knee so he could finally go sleep in a bed he actually liked. But Dean had swatted him away, sitting up again and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he said.

“It looked like you were.”

“Yeah, well. I wasn’t.” Dean shrugged, and stared down at his lap for a moment as he continued to massage his neck.

Cas waited patiently.

Dean wet his lips with his tongue, dropped his hand from his neck and started picking at a spare thread on the couch.

“Charlie sent me a text on the way home,” he said, the slightest of tremors in his voice. He watched the thread as he picked at it. “Telling me about the date she went on last week.”

Cas wasn’t sure how this related to anything, but he nodded along anyway.

“She said she had a great time,” Dean explained nervously. “She really liked… this person.”

At the vague wording, Cas felt a tiny whisper of recognition cross his mind, and sat up a little straighter. His sudden movement must have spooked Dean, because he tensed up immediately, face flushing pink, and started muttering about going to bed and being tired. Just as he was about to stand up and leave, and possibly never finish this conversation or even acknowledge it again, Cas reached out to wrap a hand around his elbow. If he hadn’t been sure before what this conversation was about, Dean’s reaction had certainly cleared things up.

“Dean, please don’t go,” Cas said quietly.

Dean met his eyes head on, and there was real, true fear there. Dean fought monsters for a living, risked his life on an almost daily basis and had been through some of the most horrific things that could ever be done to a person, and yet here he was, staring at Cas like a child lost in a department store. He swallowed hard, blinked rapidly, and sat back down on his side of the couch, elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his palms. Before he put the pressure on them, Cas had seen his hands trembling slightly.

He didn’t want to overcrowd or overstep, slowly letting his hand fall away from Dean’s arm. He watched Dean stare hard at the wall in front of him. Watched as he took a number of deep breaths to calm the heart Cas was sure was racing beneath his rib cage.

Cas badly wanted to reach out to try and soothe Dean, to promise him that no matter what he said-or admitted to-, he would still be Dean. That it wouldn’t change Cas’ feelings. That Dean is Dean is Dean, regardless. He refrained, though, because this wasn’t about him. It was Dean’s decision to say something in the first place, and Cas would do everything in _his_ control to keep _Dean_ in control of the situation.

“I mean,” Dean said quietly, gaze dropped to the floor, voice sounding like it was squeezed from a chest with no oxygen left, “You must know.” His voice grew smaller. “You must have always known.” He said it like they hadn’t just been sitting in silence for the past twenty minutes. Like it’s an unacknowledged conversation they’d been having for a long time.

Cas was so close to reaching out, to resting a palm flat on Dean’s back and rubbing circles there, but he kept himself in check. He didn’t want to scare him away. He didn’t want to add to what he knew was already a weight on Dean’s shoulders.  

“It’s yours to tell, not mine to know,” Cas said gently. “Unless you decide otherwise.”

Dean’s shoulders were tense when he finally sat up, a rigid line, a soldier standing for roll call. Cas wanted to run his hand down the curve of Dean’s back, ask him to soften. _For me, at least_.       

Dean seemed to think this was the best way to go, though. So Cas went.

Dean’s voice trembled in a lot of places, and sometimes he would have to stop to take long, shuddering breaths. He would cut himself off and stare at nothing for minutes straight, as if he needed a break from his own voice. He told a few stories about his dad. About growing up in a culture that drank beer for breakfast and ate lead for dinner.  

That night, he didn’t end up saying anything. Not really. But somehow, Cas knew it all needed to be said.

Dean did eventually get around to telling Cas that Charlie was interested in women, exclusively. He said that it was something he had asked Charlie about one night when they got really drunk together, and Charlie had given him a clever, knowing look in response. Dean explained there were some details he assumed Charlie would want kept private, but he told Cas the outline of her story, merely flipping through a coloring book instead of filling it in. Cas listened, and though he would never say it, he knew that Dean wasn’t telling him Charlie’s story, but his own.

Cas thinks about this, about that night a couple months ago. Dean hasn’t brought it up since, though Cas wasn’t really expecting him to. Regardless, it felt like maybe something had changed between them, that there was a new kind of intimacy there. In the moments when they were alone, Cas felt soft in ways he’d never felt before. Dean walked around like he carried at least an incrementally lighter burden on his back.

Cas hates to think that he’s going to use this newfound intimacy, not only because he’s going to use it to trick Charlie, but because it feels like betraying what happened between him and Dean that night, and what they became afterwards.

Dire circumstances, he tells himself, and tries not to think that this is the exact same kind of decision making that has led to almost every terrible mistake he’s ever made.

“Charlie,” Cas says quietly, and he doesn’t have to work very hard to let his very real distress slip through the phone. “The problem wasn’t with the hunt.”

“... Okay.” Charlie says. “Going to need a little more than that.”

“During the hunt, Dean _did_ get injured,” Cas hedges, swallowing. There’s that almost-truth again. “I thought it was worse than it was.” And that’s the first real lie he’s told today, so, one. “I said… some things,” Cas admits. This is true. “That I regret.” That’s not. In fact, Cas regrets the things he didn’t say as opposed to the ones he did.

“And I think Dean regretted them, too,” he invents, because now he’s getting into the uncharted territory of the lie. Now he has to speak for Dean.

“Okay,” Charlie says again, softer this time.

“I may have confessed… certain feelings,” he admits. “I got caught up in the moment, and they. Um. Slipped out.” He taps a finger on lightly on the back of Sam’s phone, trying to concentrate. Before, he always had the lies pre-made and ready to pull out at any time. Now, he finds himself making it up on the fly, hoping not to catch himself in it.

“Dean didn’t… reciprocate said feelings,” Cas says, and he’s surprised by how much this lie hurts _him_. He tries not to dwell on these kinds of hypotheticals, but it’s become increasingly hard as the years have worn on and he and Dean have grown inexorably closer.    

“He said, um,” Cas swallows, because he’s accidentally swung around to the truth again. “He said he needed a break. Some time off.”

“Where’s Sam?” Charlie asks, accusatory tone completely gone. She sounds incredibly sad.

“Sam forgot his phone here at the bunker when we left for the hunt. When he realized Dean was gone, he wanted to start searching for him right away. He told me he’d pick up a disposable one and call so I had the number, but I’m still waiting.”

“Does Dean have his phone?”

Cas nods before he remembers he’s on a phone call.

“He does. I’ve tried contacting him multiple times-” Cas clears his throat, “-though I doubt he’s interested in returning my calls. Perhaps you’d have better luck.” Cas desperately hopes Dean doesn’t answer any of Charlie’s phone calls.

There’s a muted shuffling on the other line, and though Cas has no idea what Charlie looks like or what her mannerisms are, he can picture her collapsing onto a couch, deflated.

“I’m sorry, man,” she says. “I really am. Though I gotta say, I always thought- nevermind,” she interrupts herself. “Is there anything I can do?”

Cas smiles wanly.

“I just want to bring him home,” he says.

“Were you planning on looking for him?” she asks. “If you wanted a location, I could try and find you a location…”

Cas feels terrible. He feels like shit. But he tries to inject as much gratitude into his voice as he can when he thanks Charlie, and asks her to wait a moment while he goes to find Dean’s list of fake credit cards numbers.

After about forty five minutes, Charlie texts him an address to his phone: Ellsworth, just over a hundred miles south of Lebanon. 

He texts her another thank you, and she sends back, **go get him tiger**.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean ditches Cas’ car the moment he finds a better one. It’s a piece of shit Taurus from the nineties, but at least it’ll fly pretty far under the radar until he can get out of Kansas. Besides, if Cas loves his car so damn much Dean may as well do him a favor and not leave it in the middle of a lake or something.

“I am such a nice demon,” he concludes as he drives south on 281, window rolled down and wind rushing through the car, hair tickling his forehead and the back of his neck. He has the radio turned up loud, singing along to terrible lovelorn ballads from the eighties he always used to pretend to hate. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and nods his head in time with the music, the Blade is tossed into the passenger seat beside him.      

If this is all being a demon is, stealing crappy cars and singing along to crappy music and not feeling bad about it? Dean’ll take it.

He drives until he hits a place called Ellsworth, a town with a population of just over three thousand, according to the sign. He cruises around looking for a gas station, and in a place this size, it doesn’t take him long to find one.

There are no Gas’n’Sips here, just a ramshackle place with good old creaky signs and candy bars that have been melted three times over by the sun through the windows. Before he gets out of the car, Dean grabs his bag and tosses it into the front seat, covering up the Blade from any curious eyes. He scratches absently at his forearm as he gets out and starts filling up the car, whistling tunelessly and enjoying the sunlight and blue skies. Once he’s done, he heads inside to pay, an actual bell tinkling above him once he opens the door.

The grizzled guy sitting behind the counter gives him a brief nod.

“Heya,” Dean comes up to the counter, smiling. “Pump two.”

As the guy rings him up, Dean browses through the small selection of post cards displayed in a wire turntable on the counter. There’s a couple with cows, a couple with wheat, and a couple of the Wichita and Topeka skylines. Pretty standard Kansas fare. Regardless, Dean plucks one of the wheat ones out and adds it to his purchase. As he’s handing his credit card over, he says, “I’m looking for a drink. Care to help a guy out?”

The cashier grunts and leans forward, tapping a flyer that’s been taped to the front of the counter. Dean takes a step back, and tilts his head thoughtfully.

“Karaoke?” he says, nodding. He looks at the guy knowingly, flapping his post card at him. “You look like you can really belt it out,” he says good naturedly as he makes his way to the door, “Have a good one.”

Once Dean gets back into the car, he pulls his phone out of his pocket for the first time since he’s left the bunker. He snorts when he sees all the messages from Cas, opening his voicemail out of curiosity.

Each message is a little more desperate than the last, starting with the typical, “we can fix this”, “we’ll figure it out”, “please come home, Dean”. Dean hits play on Cas’ last message, and continues to listen.

“ _You know I’m going to come looking for you, Dean._ ” Dean looks down the credit card receipt in his hand, thinks, _shit_. _“Things may seem fine now, but if I’m guessing correctly, the Mark isn’t done with you yet. Things are just going to get worse_.” There’s a pause, a hesitancy. Then, “ _At least call me. Text, even. Or just come back, Dean._ ”

Dean deletes the messages. He also deletes Cas’ texts without reading them.

He stares at the receipt again, deliberating. If Cas found a way to trace his cards already- and it’s possible- then he should probably hightail it before Cas shows up with a flask of holy water.

But then again, the whole point of this endeavor is that Dean’s free to do what he pleases now. And that means going to this bar tonight to hear drunk people make fools out of themselves while singing The Pina Colada Song. So fuck it. Cas can show up if he wants, and Dean’ll show him a good time.

Since he’s got a few hours to kill, he drives around town, taking in the great sites of Ellsworth. Eventually, he stops along the edge of a backroad on the way out of town- a road Cas wouldn’t be coming in on- and kicks back, putting his feet up on the dashboard. Something about being dead just really tuckered him out, apparently.

His dreams are strange, but he can’t remember why. 

***

Dean’s about four beers and who knows how many shots in when he goes up for karaoke, and though his tolerance is high- thanks to both the alcoholism and his newfound demonicness- he’s definitely feeling it.

The bar is your standard roadside, small town fare. Smoky, dirty, and dingy all rolled into one. The pool tables here are probably used for dry humping more often than playing pool. Dean’s pretty sure there’s a guy dealing some kind of drug sitting in the corner booth over there.

As far as Dean can tell, the bar doesn’t even have a name. When he rolled up just before midnight, there was a neon open sign blinking in the window and the word ‘BAR’ on the sign, and that was good enough for him. He sauntered in, returned a couple of the “friendly” looks he got, and spent the next couple hours trying to get plastered- which has, actually, proved to be more difficult than he thought. He never realized demons had a higher substance tolerance than humans

That thought hits him a little strangely. He’s no longer human. He’s Dean, but not, because Dean was a human. He chews on this revelation for a moment, but then his name gets called to sing, and up he goes, leaving the thought behind with his half-finished beer.

He belts out Heaven is a Place On Earth and probably embarrasses half the people in the bar, but the other half seem into it, even going so far as to whistle appreciatively as he jumps around the stage like a total asshole during the instrumental bits. A half full beer bottle gets thrown at his head at one point, and he points and winks at the guy who threw it.

When he makes his way back to his seat at the bar, he finds that it’s not his seat anymore, and the new occupant of it is wearing a much grumpier expression than the previous one.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says. He’s sans trench coat and suit jacket, most likely because they’re still soaked with Dean’s blood. His white dress shirt is creased, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

Dean slides into the seat next to him, ignoring the jolt that hits him when he sees Cas’ bare forearms, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Cas!” he says, “Nice to see ya,” he points to Cas’ forehead, “How’s the noggin?”

“Intact, thank you.”

“Ahh, well,” Dean smiles, _aw shucks_. “That’s what I aimed for. Bumped, not broken.”

“Funny,” Cas says neutrally, “I thought you were aiming me at the floor.”

Dean swipes his beer back, notices Cas hasn’t stolen a sip.

“Semantics, right?” he says, as he gestures for another beer from the bartender.

As he takes a sip, he feels Cas’ eyes on the side of his face. Probably waiting for him to freak out and kill half the bar or something.

“You could have texted me,” Cas says. “At least.”

Dean looks at his wrist as if there’s a watch sitting there.

“It’s been like, what, fifteen hours since we tango’d at the bunker? Clingy much?”

“Dean, I just want you to-”

Dean leans in close, siren’s smile on his lips.

“Cas,” he interrupts smoothly, “You just want me to come back to the bunker. I know. I get it,” he nods sagely as he speaks, “I’m glad you’re here, man. But you so much as speak a word of Latin or sneak a drop of holy water in my drink, and I’ll start slitting throats.”

Cas yanks himself away as if he’s been electrocuted, jaw set.

“You won’t,” he calls Dean’s bluff, but Dean can see the uncertainty in his eyes and jumps on it. Cas knows Dean as a human. He doesn’t know Dean as a demon.

Dean raises an eyebrow and lifts the hem of his shirt just enough so that Cas can see where the Blade is still tucked into his waistband.

“You wanna find out?” Dean challenges.

He hasn’t thought much about the mindless slaughter part of it all yet, if he’s being honest. He went on a nice drive today. He got kind of drunk. He sang bad karaoke. It was simple. It was fun.

The question hangs there between them like a highwire, perilous. Then Dean snorts and takes a sip of beer.

“Okay, you’ got me,” he admits. “But Jesus, man, I’m just a guy having a beer. I did this as a human too, y’know. Nothing’s changed except I got some Halloween contact lenses.”

Cas shakes his head, waving away the bartender who tries to give him his beer.

“You’re not listening to me, Dean,” he hisses, leaning in again. “This isn’t going to end well. The consequences are-”

“Again with the consequences, Cas?” Dean groans, finishing off his beer. “I’m just…” he casts around for the right phrase, “... hanging out.”

Dean’s reflexes are too dulled to pull away when Cas reaches forward to grab his arm, holding it up to inspect the Mark.

“This is just ‘hanging out’?” he accuses, thumb pressing into the skin right below it. With his other hand, he touches the Blade through Dean’s shirt. “And this?”

 Dean swats him off.

“Can’t do anything about _this_ , in case you’ve forgotten,” he says, holding his arm up.

“And the Blade?”

“I always bring a blade with me.”

“You know that’s not the same thing.”

“Fuck you it’s not.”

Cas sighs heavily, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s the one who gestures to the bartender this time, and she grudgingly gives him a beer.

“So how’d you find me?” Dean asks. “Was it the credit card? It was the credit card, wasn’t it?”

Cas nods and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Well, consider this a dry run, because I’m cutting all those cards up. I won’t be so easy to find next time.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to that, just nods stoically.

 “I didn’t know you knew how to trace credit cards,” Dean says after a minute.

“I don’t,” Cas admits shiftily.

“Well, who then?”

“Charlie called.”

“Ahh.” Dean leans back. “So did you drop the demon bomb on her or what?”

At the expression on Cas’ face, Dean laughs.

“Told a little white lie, huh? It’s alright. You’re ashamed of me. I get it.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Okay, so what?”

“Dean, I thought it would be obvious. I don’t know Charlie, but I wasn’t just going to tell her that her friend died and woke back up as a demon.”

A guy a couple seats down from Cas is staring at them, confused and obviously trying to listen in on their conversation. Dean glares at him until he turns back around. Cas looks back, and then at Dean questioningly. Dean waves him off.

“You had to tell her something though, right? Ooh, boy, what’d you cook up for her, Cas? Am I in the hospital? Contagious? Did I win a three week cruise to the Bahamas? Am I currently getting bronzed on the beach?”

Cas shifts uncomfortably, fidgeting with his glass and not saying anything.

“Well, shit, now I’m intrigued. What’d you say?”

“... Nothing,” Cas says, practically chewing on his own tongue, “I just… gave her the very bare bones.”

Dean slips his phone out of his pocket.

“Now, Cas,” he says, opening up his contacts list and bringing up Charlie’s info. He holds it out for Cas to see. “I can call her right now and end your whole charade before it can even get rolling.”

Dean can see Cas trying to come up with another lie, can see it trying to worm its way up and out of him, but Dean doesn’t give him the time. His finger hovers over the call button, and Cas pushes the phone back into Dean’s chest, resigned.

“I told her you rejected my advances,” he confesses in a rush. “And that you took some time off to… process.”

 Dean narrows his eyes, nodding. Then, he shakes his head.

“Well that wasn’t much of a lie, was it?” he asks thoughtfully, and Cas blanches. “I mean, let’s not beat around the bush here. You said some _things_ while I was dying.” He taps his ear as the color drains from Cas’ face. “Yeah, I heard.” He wets his lips, shrugging again. “I died on you, but I don’t think that counts as an explicit rejection. But since I _was_ dead for a while, you could probably fudge that as ‘processing time’.” He breaks out into a smile. “See? Not a lie in sight.” Every time Dean smiles, bright and big, he watches it catch Cas off guard. He watches for that little spark of surprise in his eyes, that quick flash of involuntary lust. Cas is less susceptible than most to a pretty face, but Dean’s face is very pretty.

Cas takes a sip of beer, trying to buy himself time.

“Dean,” he starts hesitantly, “the things that I said-”

Dean waves him off casually.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says cheerfully, “Water under the bridge, bygones being bygones, etc.”

Cas is hesitant, and suspicious, and Dean thinks more than a little hurt, but he nods curtly.

“Water under the bridge, then,” he agrees stiffly.

In the background, someone starts up a slurring rendition of Born to Be Wild, and Dean turns to raise his glass in solidarity, letting out a loud cheer. When he turns back, Cas is watching him.

“That was an interesting song choice,” he changes the subject wryly, having composed himself. “When you were up there.”

Dean smiles.

“Oh, so you heard that, huh?”

 “It was… enthusiastic.” The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches. He stills it almost right away, but Dean catches it and his eyes widen in delight. He boffs Cas on the shoulder.

“You found it endearing you son of a bitch! Ahh, Cas,” Dean smiles wider, “I knew you couldn’t resist my demonic charm.”

Cas’ smile melts immediately, and he sobers up again.

“No,” he covers, “You need to understand that this is… a difficult situation. Seeing you like this. It’s complicated.”

Dean rolls his eyes good naturedly.

“Look, Cas,” he says confidentially, “I’m a charming guy. And with all that shit I used to stow finally dumped, I’m _really_ charming.” he shrugs. “You don’t need to feel guilty for thinking that demon me is endearing. Or charming. Or handsome.” He winks, really plays it up. “Cause I am.”

Cas’ stool scrapes loudly against the floor as he pushes it back from the bar, earning himself a dirty look from Steppenwolf up on the stage there as he’s getting ready for another round.

“I need to use the restroom,” he says stiffly, and without another word, disappears into the crowd.     

Dean watches him go, nursing his beer.

“Annnnnd strike,” he mumbles to himself, digging his Kansas postcard out of his pocket and flattening it out on the bar. He asks the bartender if he can borrow a pen, and scribbles something down on the back. When he’s finished, he slips it under the edge of Cas’ beer. He slaps some cash down next to the drinks- what can he say, he won a couple hundred off some bikers earlier in the night and he’s feeling generous- and makes a beeline for the exit. On his way out, he snags a leather jacket off the back of an empty chair, its occupant probably taking a piss or up at the bar for another round. He gives it a quick once over, and it seems nice enough. A little big, maybe, but good quality and lowkey. He casually shrugs it on, subtly trying to make sure no one’s eyeing him up for stealing another guy’s jacket. Once he’s positive it fits okay, he takes a quick glance at his reflection in the glass pane of the exit door, running his fingers through his hair. He adjusts the jacket so that it falls properly, and straightens up, about to leave, when something occurs to him. People must think he’s drunk off his ass to be standing like this in front of the exit, but he doesn’t care. He leans close to the glass, and it’s definitely not a perfect reflection, but it’s clear enough to make out.

This is the first time he’s seen his eyes flicker to black.

He blinks at himself, watches the black disappear for only a moment behind his eyelids, and then reappear, just as clear, just as flat as before. It looks like his pupils have dilated and melted, like he’s been left out in the sun for too long. It reminds him of the black goo that the leviathans were made out of, the goo that Cas was leaking right before he walked into that lake.

The First Blade hums contentedly against his bare skin at the sight, sending a jolt of warmth zinging up his spine. Dean’s breath catches at the sensation and he puts a hand to the outline of the Blade under his shirt, gripping it hard. His fingers tingle slightly and a similar feeling spreads through his hand, up his forearm, centering on the Mark. He breathes in deeply, the blood rushing fast and harsh under the Mark, practically pulsing when he touches a finger to it. His heart thuds dully, and he can hear his own slightly elevated heart rate pumping inside his head, at the corners of his vision, like he’s suddenly entered a very long, very dark tunnel.

He’s only yanked away from his reflection when someone knocks a glass to the floor somewhere behind him, and the crash has him automatically looking over his shoulder, searching for trouble. He turns back to the glass panel, but he just looks like himself again, eyes green and Blade stowed.

Disconcerted, he hurries out into the cool summer night, refusing to look behind him.

***

Cas manages to hold it together until he's gotten into the bathroom. As soon as he's closed and locked the door behind him, he stumbles to the sink, gripping the porcelain hard enough that he worries he's actually going to crack it. He lets his head fall, watches his knuckles turn the same color as the sink without really seeing it. He takes deep breaths, trying to sort his thoughts, but there's too much noise in his head.

The bathroom is only lit by a single, naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and it casts a sickly glow over everything. When Cas catches his own eye in the mirror, he does a double take, leaning in to poke and prod at his wan skin. His hair is sticking up in strange places, his shirt is looking worse than normal, and with a shift in his gut, he thinks that he's going to have to start showering soon. Usually his grace takes care of all things hygiene related, but it seems to be more interested in other endeavors these days, like keeping his body from bursting apart at the seams. This stolen grace isn't going to last forever. Sooner or later, Cas knew his time would be up. But knowing something and actually experiencing it, as he's learned, are two completely different things.

He puts a hand to his head, and imagines the grace eking out of him even now, small tendrils of blue- white light dissipating in the air around him like wisps of smoke.

He turns on the cold water tap and gives it a minute to properly chill, then cups his hands under the stream, allowing it to pool in his palms and flow over the backs of his hands. He leans over and splashes some into his face, trying to shock his system back into sync with the rest of the world, but it just feels useless. It’s only been about a full day since Dean died and then _didn’t_ , and if this serves as a preview for what’s to come, Cas isn’t sure he wants to stay for the full show. He runs wet hands through his hair, trying to tame it at least down to socially respectable levels, but it continues to fall strangely, just as out of sorts as he is.

He straightens up, and catches himself in the mirror again. The water on his eyelashes blurs his sight as he blinks, and he raises an arm to wipe it away.

Cas probably would have stayed in the bathroom for at least a couple minutes longer, but someone pounds on the door and yells at him to hurry up, so he slips out, brushing past a large, leather-clad man who hisses at him like he’s looking for a fight. Cas just shakes his head and ignores him, and is about to walk away when the guy grabs the belt loop on the back of his pants and yanks him backwards hard enough that Cas stumbles.

“You don’t talk to me that way,” the guy snaps, swaying slightly and lucky to be still standing, judging by the redness of his face. His eyes are small and beady and mean, and he glares at Cas. He’s at least a couple inches taller than Cas, and heavier, too.

Cas takes a step back, and usually he’d try to escape a situation like this without conflict, but he’s keyed up and frustrated and finds he can’t hold back the bite in his voice.

“I wasn’t talking to you at all,” he says, and his voice is dangerous, hardly a tone needed in a conversation with one party incredibly drunk and agitated and the other just plain agitated. His hands are alternating between clenching into fists and relaxing, and he feels heat rush up the back of his neck.

“What’d you say to me?” The guy slurs, taking a step forward and stumbling a little, having to throw out a hand to brace himself on the wall so he doesn’t fall flat on his face. “What the fuck’d you say t’me?”

Cas takes another step back.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “This is not a fight you’re going to win.”

Actually, Cas isn’t sure about that. This man is big and strong, and while Cas is probably faster than him, he’s not sure how much he can rely on his grace at the moment to aid him in his fight.

As it stands, Cas isn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t welcome the fight. He rarely enjoys the fights he finds himself in, unlike Dean, who seems to get some kind of release out of physical confrontation. But tonight seems to be a different story, and airing out grievances through a swung punch feels simple, uncomplicated in comparison to the web he’s currently trying to unwind with Dean.  

The guy takes another shambling step forward, and Cas desperately wants to lash out, just because he can. He fights himself over the opportunity, but right before his fist properly closes, he briefly wonders if this is how the Mark is soon going to be influencing Dean, and that thought stops him cold.

So cold, in fact, that he crisply sidesteps the drunk man as he bulls forward, not even a scratch on him. The man goes flying, though, having expected to meet a body halfway through his charge. Finding nothing, he pitches forward, arms windmilling, and ends up knocking a tray of empty glasses from a waitress’ hand. The glasses crash to the floor and for a moment, the rancour in the bar dies down, and for some reason the only sound Cas seems to catch is the bell tinkling at the door as someone leaves.

The sound picks back up again just like Dean turning the radio up in the Impala. The man lies motionless on the floor, and Cas hovers over him for a moment, satisfied only when he sees the man is still breathing. Passed out, Cas assumes. A group that seems to be the one he came here with crowds around him, all similarly clad in leather and bandanas as they murmur to each other and bend down to check on him.

Cas turns around to help the waitress pick up the glasses but she waves him off, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiles tiredly, piling the larger pieces of glass back onto the tray.

“Please,” Cas says, “I shouldn’t have antagonized him. This is my fault.”

“It’s fine,” the waitress says kindly, “Stuff like this happens all the time around here.”

Cas picks up all the glass he can anyway, and she doesn’t protest. Around them, the bar continues to hum.

When they’re just about finished, Cas hears a small, uncomfortable noise from beside him. Looking over, he sees the blood running from a cut on the waitresses’ finger, a piece of bloody glass dropped onto the tray.

“Oh, shit,” she says, wrapping her other hand around it to stem the flow of blood. She looks at Cas apologetically. “Would you mind carrying this tray to the bar for me?”

“Are you okay?” Cas asks as he picks it up. “Would you like me to take a look?” Not that he knows an incredible amount of healing techniques that aren’t grace related, but he thinks he’s seen Dean sew up a cut enough times to know how to do it. This woman is a waitress at a rundown bar, and Cas knows there’s a chance she may not be able to afford to see a doctor.

She leads him to the bar and points to where he should put the tray down.

“No thanks,” she says, nodding to the finger. “And thanks,” as she nods to the tray. She grabs a paper towel and wraps it around her finger. Her name tag says Marie.

Cas looks around briefly, trying to find Dean further down the bar but can’t see him. He feels his mouth thin out, a furrow between his brow appear.

“Hey, what about you?” Marie asks, following his glance, “You looking for someone?”

Cas returns his gaze to Marie, “I think he may have left.”

She makes a _tsk_ ing noise and shakes her head.

“His loss,” she offers.

Cas smiles wanly.

“Not quite,” he says. Then, “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”

“No worries,” she says kindly. She puts her injured hand down on the shelf behind the bar, and Cas sees her wince. The paper towel is already leaking through.

“Please,” he says again, “May I take a quick look? I… I might be able to help.”

She looks at him strangely, but shrugs and thrusts her hand out. Cas rests her hand in his palm, carefully peeling away the paper towel and murmuring another apology when she cringes. He examines the cut carefully. It’s about half the length of her finger and not too deep, but still stubbornly bleeding.

 _This is a bad idea_ , he tells himself as he puts his other hand on top of hers, closing his eyes and concentrating. _You can’t waste it on trivial, non-life threatening matters._

He ignores himself, focusing. It takes him a couple tries to summon the grace needed, but after a few seconds he feels the skin of her finger knit back together beneath his hold.

Shocked, Marie yanks her hand away, staring at her newly healed finger in awe.

“What the fuck?” she asks, eyes wide. “How did you-”

Cas is exhausted, and a horrible, horrible feeling has just started curdling in his gut.

 _You could save her and you couldn’t save Dean_ , a snide, cruel voice informs him. _Dean was dying, and you couldn’t save him. You let him go. You failed him._

Cas shakes his head wearily, both from the grace he just expended and the thoughts flooding him.

Marie is staring at him, confusion and fear both woven into her expression. Cas doesn’t even bother to hide his weariness behind a smile, though he does try to be kind when he says, “Have a good night, Marie,” and walks back to where he and Dean were originally sitting. He’s unsurprised to find Dean gone, and a small, traitorous part of him is glad, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to be sitting that close to someone he cares for so deeply, and yet have them so far away at the same time.

He returns to his seat  to find the counter in front of him littered with cut up credit cards Dean left behind. For no reason other than he can, Cas starts shifting the pieces around, trying to match the broken halves back up. There’s a Gary Lee, a Tyler Swift, and a Walt Bishop among others. Cas knows they’re pop culture allusions, but he never got around to asking Dean who these people are or why Dean considers them important enough to borrow their names. He stares morosely at the counter for a while, occasionally sipping on a lukewarm beer for lack of anything else to do. Dean’s long gone now to who knows where, and asking Charlie to help again feels risky. If she catches Dean on any kind of security footage doing anything unseemly, she may get suspicious, and Cas doesn’t want to lie any more than he has to. She gave him his first lead, and from here on out it’s up to him.

The bartender comes around to collect the empty beers and wipe down the counter, tactfully keeping her distance from Cas, who assumes he must be looking pretty run down by this point in the night. She scoops up a couple of napkins left behind and turns around to throw them out, but pauses for a moment. She turns again, eyeing Cas.

“Hey,” she says, something in hand. It looks like a post card. Cas can see some blocky handwriting on it. “Any chance you’re-” she looks at the note again- “‘Sunshine’? Or, uh, ‘Cas’?”

Cas steels himself.

“That’s me,” he says.

She hands him the card.

“Looks like your friend left you something,” she says, already turning away to deposit the dirty glasses onto the counter behind her.

“Yes,” Cas says idly, staring down at the note. “A friend.”

 

_Hey there Sunshine,_

 

_Had to take off. Things to do, people to kill (just kidding!)_

_We should do this again. It was fun._

 

 _See ya around, Cas._             

 

Cas closes his eyes and breathes for a moment, every instinct telling him to go for his phone and call or text Dean immediately, but he refrains. It’s not going to help. Dean has made it very clear that he’s the one calling the shots here. At the bottom of the note an address is scribbled, with nothing else to indicate what’s waiting for him there. He pulls out his phone and plugs it into his map app, and finds it’s in a town called Osbourne, about halfway between here and Lebanon. He assumes this is where Dean left his car after he took it from the bunker, since he didn’t see it in the parking lot outside. Instead, he had been forced to drive one of the junkers Sam and Dean keep lying around just in case, an old Camry that looks like its front bumper is about to fall off if it hits speeds higher than 50.

Cas slides off his stool, trying to ascertain if he’s sober enough to drive. The in-between state he currently finds himself in has led to a confusing tolerance level. When he was falling during the apocalypse, it took a whole liquor store to get him drunk. When he was human, he could usually last three or four beers before starting to feel the effects. Now, though, Cas isn’t sure if a toxic grace is better or worse than pure humanity. He’s certainly not falling all over himself, and that out of sorts feeling that’s gnawing at him could be due to any number of variables from tonight, including the beer. He leaves the note behind on the bar, heading outside and hoping for some fresh air to clear his head and lift the hazy veil that seems to have settled over him.

He visibly sighs in relief when he leaves, bell tinkling above him and the chiming following him outside. He’s grateful for the blast of chilly air that hits his face and shoves his hands into his pockets, fondling his keys as he makes his way across the parking lot. There’s a shout from around the corner of the bar, but Cas ignores it. He’s about halfway to his car when he hears another angry shout, this time much closer and from directly behind him.

He turns around, only to be met with the man who was unconscious on the bar floor not twenty minutes ago, surrounded by the rest of his group. Cas quickly sizes them up: there’s six of them in total, four of which are at least the same size as their leader or even bigger. The guy is very obviously sizing Cas up as well, and seems pleased with what he sees.

“You think takin’ a potshot at a guy is a good way to win a fight?” One of the cronies asks. Cas is very aware of the edges of the group slowly trying to close in on him, surround him. “Cause that ain’t how we do it around here.”

Cas takes a step back. Any fight he had in him has long since melted away, leaving him just as empty as the seat next to him in that bar.    

“There were no potshots involved,” he assures them, though he’s already come to the conclusion that he’s not going to be able to talk himself out of this. “I merely… stepped aside and let gravity do the rest.”

“You took a shot at my back!” the leader snarls. He has what looks to be a black eye blooming, along with a bruise in the early stages forming on his cheek. His eyes are glinting, and Cas assumes he’s been looking for an excuse to fight all night, and unfortunately, Cas has given him just that.

It’s late enough that no one new is coming to the bar, but not quite late enough that people are starting to leave in droves, leaving the parking lot completely empty around them. Not that Cas would want to drag someone else into this fight, but the presence of other people would at least slow this one down.

“You’ve had a lot to drink,” Cas says, stepping back, “Maybe now isn’t the best ti-” someone on the fringes of the group charges forward and punches him across the face, sending him staggering to one knee. The grace in him recoils, trying to repair his vessel like it’s supposed to, but it flounders, shudders, and sags. Healing Marie’s finger took more out of him than he’d like to admit. Cas tastes blood in his mouth, thinks one of his teeth cut the inside of his cheek at the impact.

The group crowds in on him, and Cas manages to spit out a garbled, “Please-”, but a swift, steel toed kick to the stomach has him gasping for air before he can say anything else. He doubts these people are going to kill him, but with every kick, every punch, he feels his vessel bruising, bleeding, and breaking, and it terrifies him more than it physically hurts him. His vessel will heal to some degree, whether through the use of grace or naturally on its own, but the grace itself is another story. The more injured his vessel becomes, the more his grace exerts itself, attempting to heal him. Even though it can barely do anything, the mere act of trying is exhausting it even more than it already has been tonight, and it’s burning itself out in the process. Cas imagines candle flames snuffing out in a particularly strong gust of wind, jar lids that are seemingly impossible to open until another party manages to do it with a simple flick of the wrist, feelings that have been brewing for so long that all it takes is one more thing added to the pile, and the entire thing crumbles. Things that would otherwise endure, until a great enough force acts upon them to open the floodgates.

As Dean would say, he is currently “getting the living shit beat out of him”. But a more literal phrasing would be, “getting the grace beat out of him”. If these feet kick hard enough, it’s entirely possible that his grace completely flames out trying to heal him, right here right now, in the parking lot of a bar without a name.

The only solution Cas can think of through the barrage of feet and fists is a very bad one, but one that may leave his grace intact, if only barely. He cracks open his eyes, and through the dark outlines of his attackers above him, he stares up at the sky. It’s a clear night and the moon is big and round and white, the dotted stars twinkling delicately down at him, as if winking. He swallows hard just as another fist comes swinging towards his face, closing his eyes just as the impact sends a worrying crack through his jaw. He concentrates hard, trying to focus on every place blood is currently leaving his body. His grace (he keeps calling it _his_ , but it’s not) is stuttering, flickering, and he can barely call it to half-attention. He tries to center it in his vessel, curling it in on itself into a tight, bright ball that sits just beneath his ribcage. It moves sluggishly away from his extremities, in what Cas assumes is a similar manner to what happens when humans freeze to death, all the blood in their bodies trying to move to the most vital organs to keep them alive as long as possible. He tucks it away, hoards it all in one bright spot that makes his chest sing. He hasn’t felt grace this concentrated since before he fell, and even though it’s not perfect, he holds onto it longer than necessary. He lets it radiate through his center, basking in this small pinprick of what he once was, of all the things he once could have been. He lies on the asphalt, endures the kicks and the punches and the bruises and the blood for much longer than he has to because the idea of letting this warmth, this _surety_ go, is more painful than any kind of broken bone.

But he lets it go.

It’s not an incredibly impressive display of the immense power of an angel’s grace, but when Cas releases the energy he’s hoarded in his chest all at once, it does enough to knock his attackers back, sending them flying backwards at least ten feet, at least one or two of them landing on parked cars, whose alarms immediately start blaring.

Cas rolls onto his side, blood dribbling out of his mouth and onto the asphalt. He can barely pull himself off the ground, and everything in the general vicinity of his ribs feels like it’s been turned to mush. His face feels swollen in more than one place, and when he lifts a finger to touch it, he winces. He manages to shamble his way to his car before people start looking out the bar windows wondering where all the racket is coming from, but once he’s inside with the door closed, he just lies there, trying not to think about how it hurts to breathe.

At the moment, he can’t feel his grace at all. He knows it’s not completely gone, but whatever’s left of it is currently recuperating somewhere far away from his physical injuries. Being without grace doesn’t necessarily make him human, but it does leave him with the restrictions of one.

It hurts to pull his keys out of his pocket and start the car, but he wants to get of town before anyone can peg him for what happened at the bar, or even follow him, as he’s worried about with his attackers. Otherwise, he probably would have stayed in a motel so he could at least tend to his more superficial wounds. As it is, he merges back onto the highway and heads towards the bunker.

The drive back to Lebanon has a distinct feeling of running away with his tail between his legs, but Cas is at a loss for what to do. At this time of night, the highway is pretty empty save for a few large transport trucks and the occasional commuter. He stops in Osbourne in a mall parking lot to pick up his car, deciding Sam and Dean’s junker is worth the sacrifice since the whole reason he’s stuck with this is in the first place is because Dean stole his car first. The fact that the Continental is even where Dean said it would be is a relief, even though Cas has to hotwire his own car to get it going. Dean was the one who taught him how to do it, and Cas assumes that’s why he didn’t leave him the keys.

He makes it back to Lebanon just before dawn, and doesn’t even make it to his room. He digs in his pockets to drop the keys and his (now completely shattered) phone onto the library table, and then proceeds to fall asleep on one of the chairs, covered in dried blood, his neck at an odd angle.


	4. Chapter 4

After a week with the Taurus driving around southern Kansas doing not much of anything, Dean picks up (read: steals) the newest iteration of the Impala because he wants to pay tribute to his baby, and he also thinks it’s hilarious. He doesn’t like this car near as much as his own, but it’s comfortable and drives well. All the hard edges have been shaved off and it’s completely lacking in character, but it also makes him feel like he’s a rich asshole who can afford this kind of shit, which he finds amusing enough. It’s only after a couple hours of driving it around that he looks down at his outfit and realizes his own car is outdressing him.

He drives down to Oklahoma City, which is hardly the flashiest place in America, but it’ll do the job well enough. He doesn’t want to hit up a department store, because that’s too many people and too much security, so he settles for a small, high end men’s store he finds downtown. He parks, puts some money in the meter (last thing he needs to blow his cover is a timed out meter) and heads in, smiling brightly at the sales associate who greets him. He’s wearing a fancy name tag that reads “Steven” in even fancier writing, and Dean doesn’t miss the slight disdain that creeps into his expression once he sees the quality of clothing Dean’s wearing.

“I know, I know,” Dean laughs good naturedly, gesturing at his own outfit, and Steven’s eyes immediately snap back to attention. “But I was visiting friends up in Minnesota, and well,” he shrugs, “It may as well be Canada, y’know? Lots of-” he curls his nose up in disgust, really hamming it up, “Plaid.”

That seems to thaw Steven out, and he even smiles. He’s probably younger than Dean by a couple years, with blond hair and blue eyes. For some weird reason he reminds Dean of Cas, even though the only thing they share is an eye color. Dean figures he just must have Cas on the brain.

Dean can’t see any immediate security cameras around, but he’s pretty sure all stores this high end must have them tucked away somewhere.

“Of course,” Steven says, coming around the counter. Dean eyes up the store, and it’s nice, but small. Probably small enough that they only keep one person working at a time. “Although there are ways you can make plaid work. It’s a very popular choice at the moment.”

“Is it now?” Dean asks. He itches his forearm through his jacket.

Steven nods, gesturing for Dean to follow him. “With plaid, the sleeker the better. Generally, people pair it up to wear under sweatervests or cardigans, although with the right color scheme, it can always be worn on its own.”

“Wow, awesome,” Dean says, inching back towards the front of the store. “Could you show me uh-” he looks for something closest to the door, and the first thing he sees is the cashmere sweaters on the table at the front- “those?”

Once Steven realizes what he’s talking about, his face lights up.

“Excellent choice,” he says, changing direction and heading that way. “These sweaters are 100% cashmere, and absolutely luxurious. They’re perfect for those cooler summer nights.”

“Oh, I’m sure they are,” Dean says, subtly reaching back and locking the door to the shop. “Any colors you’d recommend?”

Steven looks at him again, this time more closely.

“For you?” he deliberates for a moment, and while he’s looking at the sweater selection, Dean flips the sign from “open” to “closed”.  “The cranberry, I think.”

“The cranberry,” Dean repeats. “Sounds good to me.”

He lets Steven walk him through various other articles of clothing, only vaguely following along as he describes the trendiest ways to wear leather, the best way to tie a scarf, and the newest patterns for summer. Dean actually feels kind of bad for the guy because he’s obviously very good at his job and terrible at spotting demons who are going to steal all his merchandise and probably get him in trouble.

But at the same time, Dean doesn’t have a new fake credit card to use yet, so he has to make do with what he has. He picks up a couple scarves and looks at them as if he plans to buy them, pulling on them to check their durability. He has to admit, these are really good quality scarves. They should do just fine.

“Did you want me to start a room for you?” Steven asks once they’ve made a full circle around the store.

Dean daintily picks at the end of a scarf.

“Actually, no.” he says apologetically. He flicks his eyes black because he figures that’ll get things going, and sure enough, Steven’s Pan Am smile slips completely off his face.

“W- what?” he stammers, backing up until he hits a shelf. His chin is trembling. “What are you?”

He doesn’t even try to fight back as Dean casually wraps the scarves around his wrists and feet, and then one connecting the two, keeping him from standing up properly. Dean barely has to tap his shoulder before he’s sliding to the ground, shaking like a leaf.

“Honestly,” Dean says, “I’m not gonna hurt you unless you try something stupid. You really sold me on those sweaters, you know.”

Sweat has broken out on Steven’s face, his hair wilted and his eyes wide.

“Please,” he says, “Please, take whatever you want and go.”

“That’s the plan,” Dean assures him, spinning the rotating tower of sunglasses that sit on the checkout counter. He plucks a pair of simple black ones out, sliding them onto his face. As he speaks, he checks out how they look in the small strip of mirror at the top of the stand. “But first, you need to tell me where the security cameras are in here.”

Steven blanches at that and his shaking intensifies. “I don’t k-know,” he stammers, “I swear I d-don’t know.”

Dean shakes his head, disappointed. He drops to one knee next to Steven, putting a firm hand on his shoulder, and Steven flinches. The price tag dangles from the sunglasses as Dean leans in, watching him closely.

“Don’t lie to me, Steven,” Dean says softly. “I just need you to be straight with me.” His hand tightens threateningly on Steven’s shoulder.

“I… I…” his eyes dart back and forth, his breathing shallow. Dean rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses, and moves his hand to the collar of Steven’s shirt and drags him behind the counter. Steven, who probably thinks he’s about to get the shit beat out of him even though Dean just needs to move him out of sight, starts legitimately crying. The Blade is warm against Dean’s side, and he _had_ been planning to use it as a bluffing tool, but this has been so easy so far he’s not even sure he’s going to need it.

The Mark throbs at the thought, and Dean actually has to let go of Steven to clutch a hand to it through his jacket, hissing. The Blade has started to heat up, and while just moments ago it was the equivalent of a warm bath, it’s quickly rising in temperature, taking only seconds to become hot enough that Dean’s scrabbling at his waistband, yanking it out and fumbling it till it drops to the floor with an innocuously flat sound. Steven stares at it with eyes big as dinner plates, and Dean lifts his shirt to examine the angry red mark the Blade has left behind. Despite the burn on his skin, as soon as the Blade leaves his possession, he feels his stomach tug uneasily, as if he just watched a little kid lose their balloon at a carnival. He reaches down to pick it up, cautiously patting his hand on the handle to make sure it’s cool enough to touch, and sure enough, it’s back to room temperature, as if it never acted up in the first place. He sticks it back in his waistband, right over the burn mark, and is surprised to learn how much better it feels now that the Blade is covering it, like aloe vera on a sunburn.   

Dean turns his attention back to Steven, who looks like he desperately wants to believe he’s having a terrible nightmare. He raises his eyebrows.

“So that’s what I’m packing,” he says. “Made from the jawbone of a donkey, but I’m always looking for a better one to replace it with.” He makes a show of tracing a finger down the line of Steven’s jaw, and notes with slight amusement how his trembling transfers into Dean’s hand. Steven swallows hard and mumbles something that Dean doesn’t quite catch. He drops his hand away immediately.

“What was that?”

“There aren’t any cameras,” he admits shakily. “Security went down about a week ago during a power surge and hasn’t been put back online yet.”

Dean pulls back, pushing his sunglasses back onto his head so he can get a better look at his captive.

“Are you lying to me, Steve?” he asks. “I hope you’re not lying to me.”

“I’m not,” he says, “I swear to god I’m not.”

Dean searches his face carefully, and finally nods in satisfaction.

“Good enough,” he says, and Steven sags in relief. “Now you just sit tight. I’m going shopping.”

Dean takes his time browsing, even going so far as to read labels and washing instructions. Not that he particularly cares about washing instructions, but there’s a certain comfort in doing so, in knowing there’s a proper way to take care of these things. He runs fabrics between his fingers and decides that his favorites are the softest ones, the cashmeres and the worn leathers. He grabs a bag from behind cash and starts putting things in, checking for security tags but ultimately not finding any. Place like this is probably too fancy for them.

He settles on earthier tones. Browns and golds and greens go into the bag, even a mustard colored plaid he’s not quite sold on. He stays away from the scarves and hats, but grabs at least ten pairs of high quality socks that he’s sure are going to treat his feet better than the value packs he usually picks up at Wal Mart. He finds himself a new leather jacket, this one a chocolate brown with an auburn-y undertone, similar to the one he had to throw away after getting back from Purgatory. He misses that jacket, and frankly he’s fucking tired of the canvas ones he always wears. After making sure Steven is still secure- he is- Dean slips into the changing room and sheds himself of all his layers, settling on the cranberry sweater, the leather jacket, and a pair of black jeans that don’t have any holes in them for once. He steps out of his clunky boots, peels his socks off, and slips on one of the new pairs. After, he heads back out into the store, padding around their small shoe selection, eventually picking out a simple black pair of oxfords. He finds his size in the backroom, and once he’s finally put himself together, he stands in front of the changing room mirror, pleased.

He comes back out to the store, standing in front of Steven expectantly.

“Eh?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

At Steven’s blank expression, Dean gestures to his torso.

“The sweater, man!” He slides his sunglasses back over his eyes and gives a thumbs up. “The cranberry was a great suggestion, by the way. So thanks for that.”

He stuffs his old clothes into a separate bag as well, and sets both old and new clothes on the floor. Dean squats beside Steven.

“Okay,” he says, “Here’s the deal. I’m not going to kill you, but you need to do me a favor in return.” He waits for Steven to respond, and when he nods frantically, Dean continues, “I’m gonna leave you tied up, and someone’ll eventually come by, I’m sure. Hell, I’ll even flip the sign back to open for you so maybe you won’t be stuck here overnight. But when you do finally get free, and the police _do_ show up to sniff around?” Dean flicks his eyes black to make his point, and Steven jumps, “You tell them I had a mask, you tell them I knocked you out, you tell them you didn’t get a good look at me, whatever. I’m a ghost, got it?”

Steven nods.

“And if I so much as hear a whisper of a murmur of a mutter that people are lookin’ for me…” Slowly, Dean slides the Blade back out from under his shirt, and more tears drip from Steven’s eyes. He holds the Blade where Steven can see it. “Well, I’ll just have to assume it was you that spilled the beans, won’t I?”

“I’ll keep your secret,” Steven sobs frantically, “I will, I will.”

Dean believes him. He does. But the hand with the Blade in it starts trembling regardless, and he feels the connection it forges with the Mark further up his arm, all heat and fury pooling under his skin.

Just like with Cas back at the bar, Dean knows that his bluff is just a bluff. He would never actually come back for this guy, even if he somehow gave up his full name and a perfect recollection for a sketch artist. He’s been bluffing his way out of tight situations his whole life, so this is nothing new.      

But that urge to reach out and _slice_ is. There’s absolutely no precedent for it. This guy has given him zero trouble and a new wardrobe. There should be no hard feelings here- on Dean’s side, at least.

He lowers the Blade, though there’s a definite lag between his brain giving the command and his arm obeying it. He forces it back into his waistband, and stretches out a smile that he directs at Steven, who’s been watching him, terrified.

“Thanks for all your help,” Dean says, though it comes out gruffer than he intended. “And have a nice life.”

He walks out of the store and back to his car, shoving all his stuff into the back seat. He sits in the driver’s seat but doesn’t turn the car on, trying to take slow, deep breaths. The Mark has calmed down, but it’s thudding, a muted pulse, something that he should be able to ignore. He grabs the Blade and tosses it into the passenger seat, ignoring the pang of discomfort that shoots through him at the loss of contact. He pulls his new jacket off and drapes it over the Blade so he can’t see it. Instead, he looks out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of the street in front of him. 

The sun is shining outside, and it’s the perfect day that precedes summer. There’s still that hint of spring freshness in the air, but the promise of warm evenings on the porch is just around the corner. Dean watches a little girl, one hand in her mother’s and one holding onto a precariously scooped ice cream cone, walk by. The mother looks exhausted, but she smiles down at her daughter regardless, and Dean wonders idly what encouraging words she could be saying. Once they turn a corner and Dean can’t see them anymore, he sighs and turns the car on, pulling out of his spot.

He drives to a gas station on the outskirts of town, swiping a lighter when the attendant isn’t looking, and then pretends he forgot his wallet when he brings a bag of chips up to the counter. With a quick apology, Dean heads back to the Impala, twirling the lighter between his fingertips.

He ends up in a secluded field a couple miles down the road, parking on the gravel shoulder. He grabs his bag of old clothes along with all the other clothes he brought with him from the bunker and walks to the center of the field, dumping them there. For the next twenty minutes, he searches the immediate area for sticks and anything else that could be used as kindling, coming up with a piss poor replica of a fire pit. He rings it with whatever rocks he can find, not really in the mood to burn an entire field to ash, though he bets the Mark would eat it up. His gut continues to churn unhappily, the separation anxiety from the Blade fucking with Dean’s head, leaving him a little dizzy and nauseous. But he soldiers on, because suddenly this feels like a very important endeavor. Urgency ticks away under his skin, makes his fingertips tingle as he dumps all his old clothes onto his sad little pile of twigs and dry grass.

The kindling takes a couple times to catch, but it does eventually. Dean takes a step back, watching intently as his old clothes burn. He doesn’t feel sad, but he does feel… something. Nostalgic, maybe.

Everything that he was, everything that he stood for. He doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. Just last week there were angel armies to track down, Knights of Hell to kill, and a former king of hell to shove down a flight of salt covered stairs, but those aren’t his burdens to carry anymore (though he would still like to give Metatron a swift kick in the nards, if only on Cas’ behalf).

Even Sam, who seems to have dropped off the map for some reason or another, Dean is just content to let go, if that’s what he wants. Sam’s gonna do what Sam’s gonna do. He’s not worried about his brother, because Sam is a big boy who can handle himself. If and when Sam ever comes back to the bunker, Dean’ll make sure to drop by and say hi and, oh, by the way, I’m not dead, but other than that, he’s not going to lose sleep over it. Sam’s his brother, will always be his brother. That’s all he needs to know.

Cas, on the other hand. Dean’s not so sure about Cas. He’s never been one hundred percent sure where they stood with each other. What Cas said to him before he bit it probably should have cleared things up between them at least a little bit, but Dean honestly chalks it more up to emotions and adrenaline than anything else. Not that Cas knows that, of course, because Dean thought it would be more fun to mess with him instead.

The thing about Cas has always been that he could just _go_. Sam’s always gonna be around to some degree or another. But Cas is harder to read. Cas has other shit to do. Cas has problems of his own.

And with the whole demon thing now, there’s nothing to indicate that Cas won’t just throw in the towel on this whole friendship and hop a plane to Budapest or something. Cas hates what he is. Cas despises it. Cas is _hurt_ by it.

Dean pulls out his phone. He calls Cas, but instead of a dial tone, he gets a message telling him the number has been disconnected. Confused, he hangs up and tries again, but it’s the same disembodied voice telling him the same thing.

His stomach clenches.

He leaves the fire burning behind him and starts the drive back to Lebanon.

***

Cas spends the next week not doing much. He gives up on his phone after about a minute, declaring it unsalvageable and throwing it away in annoyance. He keeps meaning to pick up a new one, but every time he looks in the mirror and sees how terrible his face still looks, he refrains. When the bruises fade, he tells himself. When no one’s going to ask questions, he promises himself. He browses news sites, looking for potential hunts he knows he’s never going to follow up on. His suit and jacket are a lost cause. Even after putting them through the washing machine four times, they’re both still covered in blood, and he doesn’t think he could waste grace on cleaning them up even if he allowed himself the indulgence. He ends up stealing clothes from Dean’s room because he doesn’t have any of his own, which simultaneously makes him feel terrible and, at least, comforted. He sends Charlie a couple of halfhearted texts asking about security camera hacking. She offers to do it for him, but he assures her it’s something he’d rather do on his own. After an uncomfortable phone call in which Cas does his best to avoid the truth without outright lying, Charlie leaves him with the basic knowledge of hacking into public security cameras and the best frequencies to listen to police scanners on, just in case. She asks him why he needs the police scanners if he’s just looking for Dean, and he tells her if Dean is out there following a hunt, maybe Cas can find it. Really, he just wants to make sure Dean isn’t hurting people. He doubts Dean would do that, especially at this early stage, but he doesn’t know for sure. The Mark’s had an effect on Dean unlike anything he’s ever seen.

Cas idly checks out his new tech skills, and makes sure to turn on the police scanner for an hour or so every day, but he knows he’s not going to find anything. There’s an entire country out there that Dean could be wreaking havoc in, and there’s no way he can monitor it all at once.

However, there’s also the chance Dean’s not wreaking _anything_ out there. He could be just… _hanging out_ , as it were. Cas doesn’t want to admit that Dean just outright leaving like that- twice- stings as much as it does. First of all, Dean is a demon at the moment. Cas should be focusing on fixing that problem instead of focusing on the uneasiness sitting in his chest. Second, Cas reminds himself, he used to do that to Dean all the time, just pop out of existence, sometimes mid-sentence if he thought he had things to do elsewhere. Dean used to give him shit for it, and Cas didn’t really understand the big deal until he walked back to that empty seat at the bar last week and his stomach lurched. 

He’s licking his wounds, and he knows it. It’s a selfish thing to do at a time like this, but every time he thinks about Dean brushing off what he said before he died, he feels the need to just stop existing for a while, as if that’ll somehow make the pain go away. It wouldn’t, of course. Cas has felt for a long time that everything he feels for Dean will follow him everywhere, no matter the time or distance put between them.

So he stews for days and he worries. He worries about Dean. He worries about Sam. He worries about how slowly his injuries are healing. He watches a bunch of nature documentaries that he doesn’t pay attention to, listening only vaguely about the life cycles of whales and the migration patterns of the monarch butterfly. He tries to cook, but fails spectacularly at that and ends up eating plain toast for dinner because he’s starting to feel that rumble in his stomach again that indicates hunger. He takes a shower that feels amazing, but the reason he has to shower in the first place has him pounding his fists on the tiled walled until they start to streak red.

He feels useless, wrung out. There are about a million other problems Cas should be dealing with right now, including but not limited to all the fallen angels who are still trying to organize into factions, each jockeying for the top spot. Metatron is out there somewhere, probably up in heaven doing God knows what. Abaddon and Crowley are currently locked in a power struggle, both trying to win demonic votes to sit the throne in hell.

Since occupying Jimmy Novak’s vessel over half a decade ago, Cas has spent more time alone on earth than with anybody. Once he rebelled from heaven and started falling, he still ended up spending more time away from the Winchesters than with them. The year after Sam went to hell, his only visits to earth were to hunt for heavenly weapons that had been hidden in the most secluded corners of the globe. Even after he dragged Sam out and was reunited with Dean, the majority of his time was spent in heaven fighting a war. His time as Emmanuel is hazy to say the least, but he thinks even during that time spent with Daphne, he was often alone. He thinks he spent a lot of time gardening during that period. Being in Purgatory with Dean had been almost more than Cas could handle. Despite their horrific situation and the fact that Cas was secretly planning to stay behind, that time with Dean remains absolutely precious to him. But of course, he pushed Dean away at the very last second, forcing him to leave Cas behind. And just like that, Cas was alone again. Everything after that with Naomi and the tablets and Lucifer’s crypt had him alone and on the run. When Metatron stole his grace, and Cas woke up something akin to human alone in a field in Colorado. Dean kicking him out of the bunker. All those nights he sent lying in his sleeping bag and staring at the ceiling of the Gas’n’Sip’s storeroom.

Suffice to say, he knows what it is to be alone, and he knows what it’s like to be lonely.  The difference this time is that it’s not Cas who has scattered to the winds, but the Winchesters, and in different directions. Cas’ footsteps echo too loudly in the bunker, his own breathing too quiet. He wanders aimlessly, learning the building from the inside out only by accident, feeling like he’s leaving a trail of leaking grace behind him everywhere he goes. Like a shooting star falling to earth, he thinks sardonically. How apt.

One night, when sleep refuses to come and Cas can’t stand the thought of staring at the ceiling for a moment longer, he sits up with a sigh, padding down the hallway to a room he doesn’t think Sam and Dean ever bothered with, or had even discovered yet. It’s a storeroom, full of plants that are long turned to dust and left their ashes scattered all over the floor. At some point when this bunker was still frequented by the Men of Letters, Cas assumes they were in the process of moving these plants either outside or to an indoor conservatory he has yet to come across. As it is, everything that’s been left in here has long since died, their dirt dry and only a few shrivelled leaves left on the floor. As soon as Cas touches one, it crumples.

However, dead plants aren’t the only things in this room. On the shelves lining the walls, there are old canvas bags, about the size of tennis balls. When Cas opens them, he chokes on the stale air they cough out. Inside, he finds seeds. If they were ever labelled, they’re long since faded now, so Cas has no idea what will grow from them- if anything will, after all this time.  Regardless, he manages to find some old pots in storage, and with some soil borrowed from the forest behind the bunker, he gets to work. He leaves them in places he feels good about, places he thinks they’ll thrive. For a time, all he thinks about is the earth under his fingernails, and he’s grateful.

But that one instance of peace is short lived, and it doesn’t take long for reality to come crashing back down. With his grace currently out of commission and his defenses down, Cas finds himself subject to more desires of the flesh than he’s been used to in a while. After Metatron stole his grace, it had been particularly uncomfortable trying to deal with the overwhelming arousal that seemed to hit from time to time. Then, it presented a more than awkward situation, because living in the storeroom at the Gas’n’Sip didn’t really give him much in the way of private places. More often than not, when he found himself waking up hard, he’d do his best to ignore it, clenching his teeth and waiting for it to pass. He found out very quickly that thinking about Dean during this timeframe didn’t help matters at all, and would do his best to banish him from any and all morning thoughts. 

As an angel, Cas certainly wasn’t impervious to arousal. He was only better at controlling it. But even then he would often find himself distracted by the curve of Dean’s cheek or the way his eyes flashed in the light. As a human, though, it was absolutely relentless. Like an onslaught of the senses. The green of Dean’s eyes and the brightness of his smile were common practice in Cas’ dreams, along with his calloused hands and the freckles that dust his broad shoulders. Cas would see Dean in the plaid worn by other customers’, hear his laugh whenever Nora would say something funny. His feelings for Dean hadn’t changed at all, but the way he perceived them had. 

Now, as something that’s not much of anything, Cas finds himself at a crossroads. He has the angelic tendency of looking at things big picture, but he also has the not-so-angelic tendency to still feel his pulse quicken when Dean would sit close to him or put a hand on his shoulder. He can’t sense Dean’s soul anymore. Not because he’s currently a demon, but because Cas just doesn’t have the grace to expend. He wishes he did, though, if only to reassure himself that Dean’s soul is just the same as it always was, only currently out of commission.

He feels weak for succumbing to the desires of his vessel, but that doesn’t stop him. Even though the bunker is empty, he’ll always close and lock his door. He lies back on his bed and palms himself through his jeans, unbidden images of Dean flashing behind his eyelids. A smile, a wink. He imagines Dean’s mouth on his, hot and insistent, whispering things in the in-between spaces Cas knows he’ll never hear out loud. He says Dean’s name more than once as he strokes himself, using precome to keep things slick and heated. He thinks of all the times Dean’s hands have touched him, of all the places. Elbow. Shoulder. Neck. Face. Wrist. Whether it’s pulling him aside or just a simple clap, Cas holds those sensations close to him, unwilling to let a single moment go. He only vaguely remembers waking up after being stabbed by April, but he most certainly remembers Dean’s warm palms cupping his cheeks and the terrified- and then relieved, as Cas came to- look in his eyes. He tries to superimpose that feeling of warm palms onto himself, tries to imagine what it would feel like if Dean were touch him in other places. His sides. His hips. His thighs. He pretends that his hands are Dean’s hands on him, but he knows it’s not the same, not at all.

And then, inevitably, Cas will think about Dean in that bar. About how close he sat. About how he flirted and smiled easily, laughed easily. He thinks about being that close to Dean, about how Dean had looked at him, about how it made Cas’ pulse pound. He wasn’t thinking about things that way at the time, but now whenever he comes back to the memory he can’t help but be struck, once again, by how utterly beautiful Dean Winchester is. Even with eyes as black as soot. Even after waking up as a demon. His carelessness had struck Cas, his swagger. And Dean teased him about it, said that he didn’t need to feel bad for finding the new Dean charming. Attractive. Endearing.

And it makes Cas feel horrible. It makes him feel like he’s betraying Dean and everything their relationship ever was by even showing the slightest interest in this version of Dean. This _is_ Dean, though, Cas tells himself. It’s _not_ , but it _is_. He can argue with himself about it for hours at a time.

All those feelings Cas leaves to the end, though. When he comes into his hand, he’s gasping Dean’s name and thinking about the way it would feel if Dean were here to hear it. He rides the wave for as long as possible, and then as soon as he starts the comedown the intrusive thoughts start to nibble their way in, start to warn him that he’s selfish, and terrible, and _have you forgotten, Cas, that this is all your fault_? There’s a small part of him, growing bigger every day, that asks if his predictions of Dean going off the rails is only one made in self-service. Either he could be right, and the Mark and the Blade will eventually consume Dean entirely, or he could be wrong, and Dean could have been right about just wanting to live a pain-free existence.

The logical side of Cas knows that the Mark and the Blade are nothing but trouble, that they will bring harm to Dean sooner rather than later. But the same part of Cas that’s in love with Dean also wonders if maybe he’s being selfish for trying to drag him back because he’s afraid of losing him, afraid of living in a world where Dean Winchester isn’t interested in being around him anymore. Such concerns shouldn’t bother him because all he _should_ want is what’s best for Dean. But the yearning he feels clench around his heart every time he thinks of Dean has such a strong hold on him that he’s not always sure he knows where Dean’s best interests start and his own desires end.

It took him a long time to even acknowledge the complexities of love, and he’s almost positive he will never fully understand them. Desires clash and wage battle inside him, a great many of them including Dean but just as many that are trying to seek various things in other places, most of which he can’t parse out beyond a certain tinge of melancholy that, if he’s being honest, seems to plague the majority of the human race to some degree or another. Because he wants things for himself. And he wants things for Dean. And he wonders what he’s supposed to do when some of those wants start to clash, when the lines start to blur.

Maybe that’s the point, he muses. The uncertainty. The nerves. The flowers that bloom in his chest when he thinks of _his_ Dean.           

He aches for Dean. That is one thing he knows for sure.

***

Cas is woken up by a knock on the door. Loud, thumping knocks that reverberate through the bunker, even reaching him all the way in Dean’s bedroom where he had finally passed out last night. He had yanked the bloody sheets off the bed, crawling onto the mattress and forcing himself to keep his eyes closed until he finally fell asleep. Cas has to sleep at least a couple hours a night now, both in part to give his grace time to rest and because frankly, he needs it. He knows he’ll eventually need more as his grace continues to deplete, but he’s been fighting it every step of the way, hating the oblivion that sleep brings, hating the weakness that comes along with it. But last night he had finally given up, dragging himself to Dean’s room in defeat because he’d rather sleep there, somewhere warm and lived in, than in one of the stark, impersonal bedrooms neither Winchester has yet touched.

When the knocking continues, Cas grumbles and rolls out of bed, feeling no less rested than before he slept. His face is still stiff and mottled with bruises, and he hasn’t showered in at least a couple days. He grabs Dean’s engraved Colt off the wall, making sure it has a bullet in the chamber, and makes his way to the front door. The knocking continues as he climbs the stairs, growing more insistent. Cas slips the Colt into his waistband where he can easily reach it if necessary, and pulls open the door.

On the other side is a short, red haired woman wearing a brightly colored sweater. When she sees him, her eyes widen.

“Cas?” she asks, and Cas recognizes her voice from the few phone conversations they shared last week.

“Charlie?”

She steps forward, pulling him into a hug. Bemused, Cas just stands there, letting it happen.

She steps back after a moment, angling her face up towards him.

“Not a big hugger, huh?”

“Uh,” Cas is still trying to find words, but she waves him off, her casual demeanor quickly melting away to reveal a much more serious one.

“Are you okay?” she asks, gesturing to her own face. “You look… well…” she looks uncomfortable. “You don’t look very good.”

Cas steps aside, giving her room to come in. He notices that she only has a small backpack with her, which he takes to mean she’s not staying very long.

“I got into a fight,” he says simply, now heading down the stairs with her in step. “At a bar.”

Charlie nods slowly.

“When you were looking for Dean?”

“Yes.”

They stop in the library, Charlie sliding into a chair and Cas taking the one opposite her.

“Would you… like a glass of water?” he eventually offers, about as subtle as a brick.

Charlie smiles faintly, putting her bag down on the table and pulling out a laptop, a flask, and a blade. She holds up the flask, says “holy water”, and takes a sip. She picks up the knife and pricks the tip of her thumb until a red dot forms. “Silver.” She hesitates for a minute, and then puts both the knife and flask away. “I’d ask you to do it,” she says, “But I’m afraid even a papercut might send you over the edge at this point… no offense.”

Cas hasn’t seen anyone since Dean last week, has even tried to avoid catching his reflection in the mirror for the most part. He hasn’t showered for days, and even though he needs sleep, he’s barely been getting it. When he does, it’s fitful and he has strange dreams.

“None taken,” Cas assures her, his voice scratchy. He’s barely used that in a week either.

Charlie looks at him for a moment longer before opening her laptop.

“Have you heard from Sam?” she asks.

“Only a brief email,” Cas lies. “He still hasn’t picked up a temporary phone.”  

 She bites her lip.

“And Dean?”

Cas drums his fingers on the table. He hadn’t mentioned this to Charlie the last time he called, too upset and too raw to really do much more than grunt at her.

“Briefly,” he says flatly.

Charlie eyes him cautiously.

“Did he… say anything?” she asks. “Like, I’m sure this was a private conversation but did he say anything else? Anything that seemed… out of the ordinary for him?” As she speaks, she starts typing on her laptop, the click of the keys perfunctory in a way that somehow makes Cas feel even worse.

Not really. He just threatened to slit throats. Acted like Cas’ confession was nothing more than a simple slip of the tongue. Basically consigned himself to becoming a full fledged demon when the Mark finally takes over.

He clears his throat.

“No,” he says. “Not particularly.”

Charlie is watching him carefully, assessing.

“Well,” she says slowly, “I know you said not to bother, but I’ve been keeping a lookout on the web for the Dean. Nothing serious or anything, just a couple algorithms set up to ping me if anything strange happens. I usually use it for hunting.”

Cas nods. “Okay.” He rubs his face, feeling where the exhaustion weighs him down between his shoulder blades and how heavy his eyelids are.

With one more tap of the laptop keys, Charlie turns it around so he can see the screen.

“This is security cam footage across the street from a boutique in downtown Oklahoma City,” she explains. Cas watches the grainy black and white feed carefully, the time stamp in the corner putting it as the day after Cas found Dean in Ellsworth.

“And?” he asks, but nerves are curdling in his gut.

Charlie fast forwards the recording, then stops and points just as someone comes into frame on the sidewalk outside the shop.

“Watch,” she says, and Cas does, stares at the laptop screen as Dean comes into view, still wearing the same things Cas had last seen him in. He walks carelessly, shoulders straight and back up. Cas’ eyes follow him into the boutique, but the angle doesn’t allow him to see any more than that. He turns to Charlie.

“You were sent a notification because Dean went clothes shopping?”

Silently, Charlie shakes her head, jumping ahead again in the tape. First, she stops for a couple seconds and Cas can just make out the ‘Open’ sign in the door being flipped to the ‘Closed’ side. She jumps again, the sign is flipped, and Dean walks back out, this time in a completely new outfit, carrying a couple of bags with the store’s logo on them. He walks out of frame and Charlie stops the recording.

“The sales guy in that store was tied up,” she says. “Tossed around a bit while someone stole hundreds of dollars’ worth of merchandise, but he won’t ID the guy who did it.” She looks at Cas. “You have any idea what the hell he’s doing?”

Cas thinks about what lie to tell, but as he does, he also allows a wave of relief to wash over him. If all Dean did was tie that man up, then they’re still okay. Dean is still okay. Relatively, anyway. Cas doesn’t know a whole lot about the Mark, but he can guess enough to worry that once the Blade draws its first proper blood, the inevitable downward slope for Dean will only get steeper. 

“When we spoke, Dean talked briefly about a hunt,” Cas invents. “Perhaps the clerk had information he needed and was reluctant to talk.”

“What, so the Winchesters just go around tying up innocent store clerks in broad daylight now?” Charlie asks dubiously. “You’re gonna have to do better than that. Plus, he stole the clothes. If he’s on a hunt, why would he do that?”

“Maybe the clerk _was_ the thing he was hunting,” Cas says. “He could have been possessed by a ghost or a demon. He could have been under the influence of a witch’s spell. There are all kinds of possibilities.”

Cas doesn’t enjoy lying, but he certainly has a knack for it. He definitely doesn’t like the part where the lie starts to feel completely needless, that maybe he should have just told the truth all along. There’s really no reason to keep Charlie in the dark, yet Cas holds his tongue anyway. He’s not sure why.

“Maybe I should call him,” Charlie says, not quite looking like she’s buying what Cas is selling, but going along with it nonetheless. “I’ve tried him a couple times and he hasn’t answered, but I could leave him another message…” she trails off as she reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “I’ll call him now, and maybe you should send Sam that footage?” she suggests as she climbs out of her chair. “Dean’s probably long gone, but it’s a start, at least.”

“I’ll do that,” Cas says, trying not to think about how Sam’s laptop is currently sitting on the table in the war room and his cell phone left on Dean’s nightstand. Wherever he is, Sam’s probably not checking his email.

When Charlie has left the room, phone to her ear, Cas pulls up the boutique footage and watches it through a couple more times. He catalogues how Dean walks on the way in, the cant of his hips and the ease of his shoulders. Right before Dean opens the door to the shop, he drops a hand to his side, and Cas knows that he’s touching the Blade through his jacket. He goes inside, and then Cas fast forwards, stopping only when Dean exits. He leans closer to the laptop then, because the picture is grainy. But also because he’s going to try and convince himself he can see _something_ in Dean as he walks away that proves this isn’t really what he wants. That will justify whatever means Cas finds himself stooping to to pull Dean out of the fire.

But all he sees is grainy footage. All he sees is a man walking away from the camera. There’s nothing inherently evil about it. For all Cas knows, there _was_ a reason Dean did what he did beyond wanting some new clothes. It really could have been a hunt. Or the store could have been a front, and what Dean’s carrying in those bags isn’t actually clothes at all, but weapons, or supplies.

Or this could be Cas making excuses. Demons generally just take what they want. Dean is a demon. If Dean wanted some clothes, he would have just taken them.

Cas thinks about all the things Dean’s never taken for himself, and all the things he has. Of course with Dean, it’s never easy. He takes the bad and refuses the good. Dean takes the blame. He takes the guilt, and the pain, and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He takes the sadness and the sorrow and the failure. He takes crippling self-hatred and self-doubt.

The things he refuses to take, however? Praise. Affirmation. Love. He can’t even take a compliment. He doesn’t want to let people help him. He doesn’t want to let people in. He feels like he’s lessening people by loving them, like his mere touch alone is pulling them down into the mud.

Dean Winchester never learned to take what he wanted because eventually, he learned to stop wanting things.

At that thought, a swift, fierce wave of protectiveness surges through Cas, and he decides, _I don’t care_. No one died. No one was seriously injured. If all this was about was getting some nice clothes? Fine. Dean deserves nice things.

He’s staring so intently at the laptop screen that he doesn’t hear Charlie come back into the room, and starts when she sighs in defeat, collapsing back into her chair.  

“No luck,” she says gloomily. “I guess the mysterious clothing debacle will have to wait to be solved another day.”

“What about the police?” Cas asks. “They must have seen this footage by now.”

Charlie nods. “They have, but Dean’s face is too blurry to do any proper facial recognition scans. Besides, even if they could, the Winchesters have supposedly died about a hundred times over in various police databases, so they would probably think it was a fluke or something.”

Cas sighs deeply.

“Charlie,” he says, “You’ve been very kind to me, but-”

Charlie holds out a hand, and he trails off.

“Look,” she says, “I know we don’t know each very well. I know you’re going to try and kick me out, and you have every right to do that. If you tell me to go, I’ll go.” She looks at him expectantly, but Cas says nothing, so she continues, “We both care about Dean. He’s like a brother to me, and you, well…” she looks at him apologetically. “We both care about him,” she finishes lamely. “So what I’m saying is that if, I dunno, you wanted to talk, or whatever. I mean…” she shrugs, “I can listen if that’s what you think you need.”

Cas remembers sitting on a bench in a snow covered garden, hands folded, telling a story to a father who never seemed interested in listening. He sat on that bench alone in the middle of winter, the cold unimportant, but the silence frigid.   

He remembers Dean, in a white dress shirt and black slacks so similar to what he once used to wear, sitting down on the bed opposite him saying, “talk to me”. And how Cas did, if only for a short period of time. How it felt to actually say what was on his mind and watch Dean watch him. It was a never a conversation they got to finish, but one Cas was glad they got to start, at least.

It won’t be the same with Charlie, he’s sure, but Charlie has been nothing but kind to him. Dean loves Charlie very much, and Cas trusts Dean. Cas likes Charlie.

“Actually,” Cas says, “I think I may take you up on that.”

And he starts talking.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean’s in another nameless bar in another nameless town, trying to talk himself out of going back to Lebanon. There’s scratchy music playing on a jukebox in the corner and a haze of smoke fills the air, a low murmur of chatter dispensed throughout the place. Someone’s shooting pool on one side, throwing darts on the other, while Dean argues with himself somewhere in between.

 _You’re a demon_ , he reminds himself _. So start acting like one._

He doesn’t owe Cas anything, and he’s certainly not using Cas not answering his phone as an excuse to go see him.

 _The whole point of being a demon is to do whatever you want_ , Dean reasons with himself. _If I want to go see Cas, I go see Cas._

He’s been downing whiskey all night with the help of a wallet he lifted off some dude he bumped into on the way in a couple hours ago, and with every shot he figuratively raises a glass to whathisface’s kind contributions. He figures he should hustle some pool tonight to walk away with a little extra cash so that he can fill up the Impala at the next gas station. He could always just beat it out of the gas station clerk, and the Blade in Dean’s jacket heats happily at the idea, but Dean ignores it, downing another shot. He’s got it under control. He’s fine.

He thinks about that clerk from a couple days ago in Oklahoma City. He’s thought about him a lot, actually. What he did to him. What he didn’t do to him. What he could’ve- _wanted_ \- to do to him. The Mark pulses on his arm in time with the memory, chastising him for refraining. _There is an ebb and a flow to everything_ , the Mark reminds him _. If giving up your humanity is the ebb, then you’d better expect some flow._

Dean could’ve opened up a vein. He could have sliced down that man’s chest, his throat, his thigh. Drenched the Blade in the flow of his blood, rubbed it across the Mark like some kind of soothing balm. The thought makes Dean shudder, but something electric zips up his spine as well, has him almost salivating at the thought. He shakes the uneasiness off, indicating for another glass while the bartender starts shooting him wary looks. He’s probably gonna cut Dean off soon.

Dean’s in the middle of downing his glass when an unexpected hand claps him on the shoulder, startling him into choking it down the wrong way. He thumps himself on the chest as two burly guys slide onto the stools on either side of him, both with that distinctive underbelly of the Midwest flair of plaid and unkempt beards.

“Sorry man,” the one on Dean’s right grunts, “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”

Dean coughs one more time, making a face.

“Nah,” he says casually, clearing his throat, “Just buy me another and we’re good.”

The guy crooks his finger at the bartender, pointing at Dean, and he slides another one Dean’s way.

“So,” he says, “You wouldn’t happen to be Dean Winchester by any chance, would you?”

Dean can feel stares coming at him from two sides, and it makes him jumpy. He downs his drink before he can lose it again and says, “Who’s askin?”

“I’m Paul,” the guy introduces himself, “that’s Eric.” Dean turns to the other guy- Eric- who nods at him.

“Okay,” Dean says gruffly.

“We’re hunters,” Paul says, lowering his voice. “We’ve heard of you a time or three.”

Dean snorts.

“Oh yeah, us Winchesters are real campfire stories,” he says.

“Let us buy you a beer,” Eric chips in. “Far as we know, it’s better to have a Winchester in your good graces than outta ‘em.”

 Dean tips his empty glass and knocks it lightly against the counter.

“Make it another of these,” he says, “and I’ll tell you some stories.”

***

If Dean weren’t so drunk at this point he probably would have held back more, but having these two idiots staring at him from across their booth like they’re his number one fans is absolutely fucking hilarious. They look at him in awe, like he’s something other than blood and bone. What they don’t know is that they’re completely right. He’s more smoke than anything these days.

They ask for stories, and Dean indulges them. He regales them with tales of ghosts and wendigos and vamps and werewolves, talks about cutting heads off like he actually gets paid for it, and they lap it up like thirsty dogs. He tells them about the time he sawed off a vamp’s head with a logging blade, the time he threw a kitsune through a woodchipper (he has Bobby to thank for that technique), the time he literally beat a werewolf to death with his bare fists before shooting a silver bullet straight through its heart, and they hang on his every word like he’s telling them bedtime stories. Dean can read the bloodlust in their eyes like he’s just opened a travel brochure, the arousal on their faces as they lick their lips and drain their beers, rearing to either go fuck something or kill it.

There are a lot of hunters like this, the ones who revel in the blood they stain their hands with. Suffice to say, the occupation attracts a certain crowd, notwithstanding all the ones who got into the business through dead family members and revenge to enact. It takes a hard kind of person to be a hunter, and Dean’s seen what this kind of hardness can do to people. He knows what it’s done to him, anyway, can feel his own skin flushing as he tells his stories, reliving the adrenaline, the kills, the victories all over again. He feels his eyes spark, his tongue light as he explains to them the exact right place on a vamp’s neck they should look for while decapitating, the softest part of the flesh.  

“Trust me,” Dean says, animated, “You don’t want a vamp with half its head hangin’ off coming after you,” Paul and Eric are laughing like hyenas at this point, hooting and hollering as they smack the table in appreciation, “I once- heh, I once had this vamp, probably ten years back now, literally rip its own head off and throw it at me, like one last, fucked up middle finger to the hunter that finally took it out.”

Paul is wiping tears from eyes, fiddling with the table’s salt shaker as Eric just gives up and buries his head in his arms, shoulders shaking with laughter.

He’s grinning, but his cheeks hurt and the Mark is starting to pulse again, unhappy. It’s fine with reliving old hunts, but it would much rather be walking the walk, so to speak.

He downs the last of his umpteenth whiskey, vision swimming by now, swaying unsteadily. He chuckles, having to hold onto the corner of their table as he attempts to yank himself out of the booth saying, “Well, gentlemen, it’s been fun but-”

Eric lifts his head from his arms, gesturing violently as he complains, “hey, c’mon man we were just getting started!” But in all his drunk, wild arm swinging, he somehow manages to knock the salt shaker out of Paul’s grip, sending it flying. Its top comes off midair from all of Paul’s fiddling, and Dean doesn’t have time to duck out of the way before he finds himself completely covered in salt.

Involuntarily, his eyes flick to black and he hisses, steam immediately rising from all the affected areas. He stumbles away as he hears the alarmed shouts of Paul and Eric, can just barely see them fumbling for their own salt or holy water or whatever weapons these morons carry around with them.

Their commotion draws the eyes of a number of the bar’s tenants, and Dean swears wildly, practically throwing himself out of the bar, writhing and staggering as he tries to swat all the salt off his exposed skin. He hears the door bang open behind him, a gunshot ringing out in the night, what he assumes is rocksalt, though it misses him by a good six feet so he doesn’t have the pleasure of finding out.

“Sorry, gentlemen!” he calls back, scratching furiously at the grains of salt still stuck to his cheek, “Buy me dinner next time and we’ll talk!” He stuffs his hand into his pocket, trying to find his car keys but between the pain and the salt and the alcohol, he can’t even find his pocket, let alone search it. It’s pitch black out, the only light coming from the bar behind him and the dilapidated payphone booth across the street. Paul and Eric are yelling at each other and another gunshot rings out, and Dean immediately feels a dollop of pain blooming in the center of his back, radiating out like the aftershocks of a pebble being dropped into a pond. He falls forward onto the pavement, coughing. At least it’s just rocksalt, so he won’t have to deal with any kind of penetrative wound.

“Ahh, c’mon guys!” he calls out as he hears them trying to rush him from behind, “We were having such a good time!”

He’s grabbed by the back of the collar and yanked to his feet, almost falling over in the complete opposite direction. He blinks a couple times, finally focusing on where Eric has a gun pointed directly at his chest. He sighs and puts both hands up, surrendering.

“Guys,” he repeats good naturedly, “You know it’s cheap to hit a man in the back.”

Eric jabs the end of the shotgun into Dean’s chest, his watery eyes narrowed.

“You ain’t a man,” he snaps. “You’re a _thing_.” As if the punctuate the point, Dean hears the sound of a flask being opened, and then holy water starts to trickle over his head, burning him in rivulets as he growls and sinks to the ground again, clawing at his own skin. Paul doesn’t allow him to collapse, though, yanking him back up. Dean can feel how sweaty his hands are through his shirt, the sharp punch of knuckles to the back of his neck.

“Fellas, fellas,” he says, turning his gesture of surrender into one of appeasement, “I _am_ Dean Winchester, I swear.”

Paul yanks him back so he can stare at him.

“You’re wearin’ his face, maybe,” he says, “But Dean Winchester _hunts_ garbage like you. Sends you back to hell where you belong.”

Dean shrugs.

“I dunno what to tell you,” he says apologetically. An idea occurs to him. “Try exorcising me,” he offers. When Eric and Paul look at each other in confusion, Dean gets his foot in the door as far as he can. “Go on, try it.”

Eric swallows, his throat bobbing. From behind him, Paul starts chanting in Latin.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_

 _omnis satanica potestas_...” He’s stumbling over the words, slow and probably only recently memorized. Dean rolls his eyes, interrupting:

“- _omnis incursio_

_infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_

_omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._

_Ergo draco maledicte_

_et omnis legio diabolica_

_adjuramus te,”_ Dean rattles off quickly because there is no way he’s going to wait for these guys to stumble through baby’s first exorcism. “Guys, I can keep going, but, c’mon. Can’t exorcise me if there’s nothing to exorcise.” He holds out his hands, waving them back and forth like a vaudeville performer. Eric is visibly put off, obviously unsure what to make of the situation.

“What the fuck are you?” he stammers. “What-”

“Shut up,” Paul snaps. He starts patting Dean down, searching for weapons. “We’ll take him somewhere quiet, see what the deal is.” Dean rolls his eyes again.

As soon as Paul pats down his side where the Blade is hidden, he reaches into Dean’s coat. Before he can even get his fist around the Blade, Dean grabs his wrist with one hand and the muzzle of the shotgun with the other, and in one smooth movement he turns, breaking Paul’s wrist and ripping the gun out of Eric’s grip. Paul screams and Eric gets one shot off that just grazes Dean’s temple, but he manages to spin away, heaving the gun far to the other side of the parking lot. Paul is crouching, holding his limp wrist in his good hand, and Eric comes running at him hard, all bull and no finesse. Dean waits until the last possible second, and then steps to the side, merely sticking his foot out. Eric goes flying, landing flat on his face on the concrete.

“Oops,” Dean says delicately. “Clumsy.”

A searing pain stabs him in the back, just under the ribs, and he turns his head to find Paul behind him, his good hand wrapped around the knife that’s currently sticking out of Dean. It hurts like a bitch and Dean hisses in a breath, pivoting fast enough that he rips the knife out of Paul’s hand (though it’s still stuck in his back), fists one of hands in the front of his shirt, and clocks him hard enough that his eyes roll back in his head. The Mark flares.

“Now,” Dean says, still holding him up with one hand, shaking him a little for good measure, “I’m trying to be the bigger man here, okay? I drink your drinks, I tell you stories, I endure being the subject of your little fucking Dean Winchester fan club, okay? I get it. I’m awesome.” He hits Paul again and hears a cheekbone crunch under his fist. “But you know what they say, pal.” He hits him one more time, and he thinks he sees a tooth fly out of Paul’s mouth, thinks he can hear it hit the asphalt somewhere below. “You should never meet your heroes.”

He drops the guy to his knees, leaves him swaying as he daintily plucks the First Blade from his jacket, tossing it between his hands. He runs his finger along the sharp side of the Blade, tapping out a rhythm. He feels the Mark and the Blade synch up under his skin, gasps out at the feeling that rushes him, pulls him away like a riptide, washing up and over him, taking him under. The feeling is so strong that a morbid fascination takes hold, and before he’s even thought about it he’s shaking off his jacket and racking his right sleeve up, watching in amazement as short, inky red tendrils wind their way from the Mark, pulsing like engorged veins. Dean stares at it, his grip tightening on the Blade until his knuckles turn white. His eyes slip to black involuntarily and he licks his lips, casting his gaze down at Paul. He shrugs apologetically.

“I said I was _trying_ ,” he admits, faux sheepish, “Not that I was succeeding.”

He runs the flat of the Blade down Paul’s face, who’s still too disoriented to fight back. Annoyed, Dean slaps him with the Blade.

“Hey,” he snaps. “C’mon. Stay with me, pal.”

Paul blinks blearily at him, so Dean grabs his broken wrist and sticks the tip of the Blade into the center of his palm until blood pools up around it. He gasps in pain, groaning and trying weakly to wriggle away, but Dean keeps a firm hold on him.

He turns his head to make sure Eric is still on the ground, but when he does, he feels the twinge reminding him he still has a knife in his back, and sighs. Once he makes sure Eric is still down, he turns back to Paul.

“Man I wish you didn’t stick me,” Dean complains. “I thought we talked about the whole stabbing in the back thing.” He lets go of Paul’s shirtfront, and he immediately slumps to the ground. Dean can hear the breath wheezing out of him. Meanwhile, Dean reaches around with his free hand to grasp at the hilt of the knife, and grimaces as he carefully pulls it out. Demons have very minor healing abilities so it should be good to go in a couple days, but had it been more serious, Dean doubts the Mark would let him go that easily. It _did_ bring him back from the dead, after all. He’s not sure if it’s impossible for him to die in this state, but something tells him it would be damn difficult to kill him. Which does actually make him feel better about the stab wound in his back, although he _is_ pissed about the hole in his jacket.

Once he gets the knife all the way out, Dean hefts it the opposite way he sent the gun, hearing a distant clatter as it disappears into the ditch on the side of the road. He turns back to Paul, bending down and pulling him back up with him. Paul’s legs are jelly by now, completely useless, so Dean’s left holding his entire weight with one hand. The Mark is pulsing away, the Blade warm in Dean’s palm. There’s a similar warmth pooling in his stomach, like a promise of things to come if he just drives the Blade into Paul’s chest. The ecstasy it promises is mouth-watering, and Dean feels an echo of it skit out from his center, ping ponging its way through his extremities all the way to the tips of his fingers and the tops of his ears. The possibility of the kill thrills him in a way he’s never quite felt before. This is bloodlust, plain and simple. There’s no underlying sense of justice here. There’s no victims to be saved. No status quo to be restored. In fact, despite these guys being complete, blood hungry assholes (pot, kettle, black) they’ve probably also saved a bunch of lives in their time as hunters. Dean could be readying to kill someone who actively prevents others from getting killed, and that means for every person these guys could have saved, Dean will have their blood on his hands as well.  

The Mark doesn’t care about that, though. He’s self-aware enough to know he’s being egged on, that if he were sober, so to speak, he would have left these guys with maybe a black eye before hitting the road if they were so inclined to fight. But wherever this desire is stemming from, it’s still a desire. _The whole point of being a demon is being able to do what you want,_ Dean reminds himself.

And he wants.

He looks down at where he’s still got Paul by the front of his shirt, suddenly struck by the blood coating his fingers. He remembers, vaguely (bizarrely), from high school English classes he barely attended, reading Dracula. That patient in the asylum, name started with an R, Dean thinks wildly, because why is he thinking of high school English classes at all? Must have been all the vamp talk tonight.

Because this guy would eat living things to gain their life force. He thought he could… shit. Dean doesn’t remember. He would eat spiders and bugs and all kinds of weird shit, and it was always about the life-force. But he also wanted Dracula to turn him into a vampire. Called him “Master”, or something. He wanted the life-force. He wanted the blood. Not that Dean’s one to take cues on how to live his life from half-remembered 19th century vampire fiction, but he wonders. He looks at the blood on his fingers again. Looks at the Blade in his hand. The Mark is pulsing indignantly at him, wondering why he hasn’t driven the Blade home yet.

Dean wants to kill because the Mark wants him to kill, and doesn’t want to kill because _he_ doesn’t want to.   

He lets go of Paul’s shirt. Raises a trembling, curious hand to his mouth and breathes in the familiar scent of blood, coppery and tangy. Salt still prickles on his skin, tiny pinpricks that burn him. He flicks his tongue out, just barely swiping it up the pad of his thumb.

He’s definitely tasted his own blood before. He’s almost positive he’s accidentally gotten monster blood in his mouth. But this is really his first blood. To actively seek it out. To taste the copper on his tongue with full intent. He hears a gurgled, “what are you?” from below him, and looks down to see Paul staring up at him with terrified, glassy eyes.

Dean snakes his tongue back into his mouth.

“I’m trying to figure out a way to spare your life,” he says coolly. But he can already tell the blood isn’t going to work. It’s all about the kill, and the Mark reminds him of that with every furious pulse under his skin.

Just to ease some of the tension, he tightens his grip on the Blade and reaches down, slicing a paper thin cut across Paul’s cheek. Paul keens. The Mark takes it, gulping it down greedily and begging for more. Dean swallows tightly as he watches the blood bloom on the skin, categorizing the way in which it drips.

He thinks about Sam and the demon blood. He wonders exactly how long it took his brother to succumb to the temptation. Sam had Ruby sitting on his shoulder the whole time, and Dean has the Mark on his arm. He wonders how different it is, really.

Of course, Sam started off by saving people. Sam was at least trying. What the Mark is asking Dean to do feels more like survival than anything. There is no road of good intentions for him to stumble off, because he never started on one in the first place.

He thinks he might really kill these men tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a little light. He turns to look, and it’s coming from the phone booth across the street like some kind of lighthouse searching for lost ships in a foggy bay. He had forgotten it was there while he was busy kicking the shit out of these guys, but now he finds himself straightening up, staring at it. The Mark keeps trying to pull him back down, but Dean lowers his weapon instead, not without a struggle. He exhales slowly, his heart still run amok in his chest on leftover adrenaline. He takes a step towards the booth, and then another. He knows the alcohol hasn’t burned out of his system yet, hampered by the Mark and the fight as it was, but he feels it swing into him again like a wrecking ball as he shuffles across the street, covered in blood and shakily searching his pocket for leftover coins. Suddenly the most important thing in the world has become reaching that phone. He doesn’t know why he thought he had to go all the way back to Lebanon for this. Doesn’t know why he thought Cas would want to see him like this.

He falls into the door of the booth, yanking it open and shoving himself inside. He glances out the glass panels to see both hunters still on the ground in the parking lot on the other side of the road. Old habits dying hard, he wipes his (blood covered) hands on his jacket before picking up the phone with a grimace, the receiver shaking slightly in his grip. He barely manages to get his coins into the slot, then has to take a number of deep breaths before he can remember the landline number for the bunker. With the phone dialed, Dean sags against the machine, lifting his free hand to cover his eyes. He takes another series of deep breaths, knowing it’s not going to be any use if Cas picks up the phone and he just starts sobbing.

The Mark is burning on his arm, furious at the intrusion, but in response, and with the same amount of ferocity, Dean slams the Blade down on top of the console, breaking his connection with it for the first time in hours. The Mark flares hot in indignation, and then quiets, slinking away until Dean picks up the Blade again. It knows he will.

The dial tone continues to drone in his ear, and the longer it goes on, the more antsy Dean gets. He takes one more deep breath, then slaps himself hard across the face, trying to pull himself together.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he mumbles, cheek stinging and eyes watering from the blow. He runs his thumb along his fingertips, the blood drying and peeling beneath his ministrations. His gaze flits to the Blade, but only briefly.

There’s a click on the other end of the line, and Dean stops breathing.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Dean hangs in the silence, suspended over a black chasm.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end finally says, laced with sleep and suspicion and- Dean brings his palm back up to his face in relief- belonging to Cas.

That voice kicks him into gear, and he swallows, smiles too tight. Can’t quite fall yet.

“Well hey there, sunshine,” he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, too cheerful, balanced on a high wire that trembles.

There’s a quick intake of breath on the other end of the line and then, “Dean?” Cas asks, all systems immediately firing. “Dean, you sound- are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m swell,” Dean says, trying to tamper his tone. “More than swell, in fact. Just called cause I missed your voice, darlin’.”

“Dean…” Cas starts again, careful, “You don’t sound well.” A pause, and Dean knows exactly where this is going.

“Did something happen?” Cas asks, his voice soft, and somehow that’s worse. Like he’s here to help. As if he doesn’t think Dean is a revolting monster, as if he’s not pissed at Dean for leaving him unconscious in the bunker, for ditching him at the bar, for writing off that dumbass shit he said before Dean died.

“Nah, man,” Dean says, waving him off, “I’m living that demonic life, you know me.”

“Where are you? I can come to you,” Cas says, obviously not buying it. Not that Dean expected him to. Not that he _wants_ him to.

“Mmmm,” Dean hums, like he’s seriously considering it. Oh, he wants Cas. But he also wants to kill things. Probably would be best if he didn’t mix the two. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather not mix business and pleasure.”

There’s an almost affronted silence, and then Cas says, offended, “So, which one am I?”

It momentarily breaks the tension, and unexpected laughter punches up and out of Dean, reverberating within the booth. Cas’ silence is surprised, but he doesn’t say anything, waits for Dean to get it all out.

“Aw, geez, Cas,” he says, wiping his eyes and feeling the crusted blood rubbing off on his lashes, “Pleasure. Always pleasure.” His laughter dies away, but he wants to hold onto that feeling, wants to pretend this all isn’t starting to feel like one giant mistake. His forearm tingles.

“Tell me what you’re up to,” he says, maybe a little desperately, because he wants to hear Cas’ voice. Wants to distract himself from the blood on his knuckles and the heat in his veins. The way the comedown from the Mark is making him feel empty at his center, and the comedown from the alcohol, morose.

“Well,” Cas says, and Dean almost starts laughing again at the tiny, ever present hint of irritation still present in Cas’ voice, “I was sleeping.”

“Sorry,” Dean manages to say with a straight face.

“Otherwise,” Cas continues, “I’ve been… keeping the bunker as best I can. Doing research. Trying to learn how to cook without burning down the place.”

Dean snorts.

“Is the toaster still giving you trouble?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “I might have gone through half a loaf of bread before I eventually figured out what I was doing wrong.”

“Wait till you have to put together a piece of furniture from Ikea.”

Cas huffs laughter, and they lapse into silence. Dean slides a few more coins into the slot and they clink loudly between them.

“Have you heard from Sam?” he asks, tapping his index finger on his thumb.

“No,” Cas sighs. “I think I may reach out to some of your allies soon, see if maybe he’s made contact with any other hunters.”

“Well, you know. Purgatory and the dog. Now this. The kid obviously wants an excuse to get out. Suppose now’s as good a time as any to give it to him.”

“I don’t think that’s the case here, Dean,” Cas says doubtfully. “I don’t know where he went or why, but I doubt it was to run.”

Dean shrugs. “Either way, I’d hate to have two fun police on my ass all the time. One’s more than enough.”

“The fun police,” Cas says slowly. “I see.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Dean says, dragging his knuckles along his thigh. When he bends the wrong way, he feels the stab wound in his back stretch painfully and he lets out an involuntarily hiss of pain.

“Dean?” Cas says, immediately dropping the pretense that they were just having some normal phone call. Just friends catching up. “Are you alright?”

Dean grunts, trying to maneuver himself so that he’s keeping the majority of his weight on the side opposite the wound.

“Peachy keen,” he says. “Got myself into a pickle, got myself out of a pickle. Or, well, I guess I got the pickle out of me.”

“Dean, if you need any help-”

“I don’t,” Dean says more sharply than he intended. “Besides, no offense, but it’s not like you could do much anyway, what with your grace and all.”

“Right,” Cas says, his voice cooling a few degrees. “I couldn’t even save your life. How could I have forgotten.”

Dean feels the wall thud down between them fast and definitive.

"That wasn't what I-" he starts to say, but Cas cuts him off sharply.

"-well it's true, regardless," he snaps, and Dean doesn’t miss the fact that Cas’ anger is directed more at himself than Dean, "You died because I couldn't heal you. You are what you are because of me."

The Mark pulses, reminding Dean of exactly what he is, and Dean grits his teeth.

"But being a demon is just. So. Fun." he says with relish, mostly to try and rile Cas up.

But Cas doesn't bite, just sighs deeply.

"I don't know how much this is going to mean to you at the moment," he says, voice low but purposeful, "but I'm going to get you back, Dean. I'm going to bring you home."

Dean grips the phone a little tighter despite his natural inclination to hold it as far away from his ear as possible.

"You know," he says quietly, "being like this... it hurts less. Than it did before." Of course there’s still the Mark. The Blade. The eyes. The bloodlust. And he still hurts. But not as much. Not near as much. He tries to inject some humor into his tone. “Like water off a duck’s back, am I right?”

“Dean,” Cas says, sounding pained. Dean thinks he’s going to say more, but the word merely hangs between them, that high wire delicately swaying in the breeze again.

Finally, he says, “This was your worst nightmare. I’ve read the Winchester gospels, remember? The African Dream Root. Saving Bobby.”

“That was…” Dean clears his throat. “That was different.” No it wasn’t. “I was going to hell. I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

Even though Dean can’t see him, he knows Cas is shaking his head.

“I’m going to save you,” Cas promises softly. A beat, and then, “I need to save you. I need you.”

Dean hangs up the phone.

***

Cas renews his search for the angels. He starts searching the missing persons databases of various cities, cross checking them with strange occurrences in the area. He already knows where at least some of his siblings are, but those factions aren’t exactly something he can deal with on his own. His best chance of getting any kind of resistance together is locating the undecided voters, so to speak. He tries not to think about the huge task he’s laid out before himself, especially how he’s going to have to do it all on his own, while continuing the hunt for a cure for Dean.

The bruises from the bar fight have mostly faded to yellow by now, somehow making him look even more sickly than before. He pokes at his ribs sometimes, annoyed at their increasing prominence. He knows he has to eat, but he doesn’t always get around to it. Most of the time he just forgets, and doesn’t do anything about it until he’s doubled over in the library from the hunger pangs.

His grace is waning. Now that the worst of the physical injuries have passed, Cas has tried to coax it out of hiding, entice it back out from behind the bars of his ribcage, but all to no avail. It’s holding onto the last vestiges of itself, refusing to burn out quite so easily. Cas can appreciate the sentiment, at least. The side effects, however, he’s not as fond of. He’s tired all the time. He sweats and has nightmares and has trouble sleeping almost every night. The clarity he often found in himself as an angel is long gone, though he’s fairly sure a great chunk of that also has to do with his current situation with Dean. The loss of resources is certainly wearing on him, though more often than not, he’s found himself more preoccupied with his impending death than anything. He’s died so many times it’s hard to imagine he could fear the end when it finally, inevitably came, but he is. He likens it to terminal diagnoses in humans, and he thinks there’s some kind of set stages of emotions one is supposed to go through when confronted with their own demise. Where his path diverges, however, is that he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up. The question of where angels go when they die has always been, to some degree, a taboo among his own kind, as if asking was some kind of selfish offense. He’s never heard of any lore on the subjects, barely even any whispers. Wouldn’t that be ironic, he thinks, if angels suffered the same fate most atheists so staunchly believe waits for them all. Humans get heaven or hell, angels get nothingness.

He’s welcomed death before. Has died for causes noble and good, and died because of his own foolish actions. Not so long ago, he thought dying permanently might be the only way he could ever atone for any of those actions. Sometimes, he still thinks that’s the only option.

But now, with his siblings scattered and heaven in disarray because of him, with Dean gone and Sam who knows where, Cas suddenly finds himself the pivot point of a great many plots he never meant to be a part of. Whether he’s dying or not, he needs to do what he can, while he can. The exhaustion, the weariness, the melancholy, the undercurrent of terror and desperation that’s been gnawing at him for months, now, aren’t things he can run from, but things he must use to push himself forward. With his last steps, he will continue to fight to right his wrongs. His last breath, though, he will always save for Dean.

***

Cas doesn’t feel bad this time about going through Sam’s contacts and calling every one of them. Asking them if they’ve seen or heard from Sam is a much different ballgame than asking if anyone’s heard of what Dean Winchester the demon is up to. Unfortunately, he still gets zero answers. Garth the werewolf does promise to put out some feelers, though. Cas tries to downplay Sam’s disappearance as much as possible, because the last thing the Winchesters need right now is any kind of eye on them. As much as Cas would like to find Sam, he’s also sure that wherever Sam is right now is of his own volition. Cas figures he’s gone somewhere quiet to deal with his grief, or is currently slashing his way through every ghost in the Midwest. Either way, Cas would like to know he’s alright, and he’s sure Dean would like to know too, despite the circumstances.

And of course he would also like to inform Sam that Dean is not, in fact, dead.

Cas is less sure how to approach returning to help his fallen siblings. Bartholomew has been dead for weeks now, and Cas has heard little else about the angelic infighting. Even after he replaces his phone, he finds no missed calls from any of his siblings, and he’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He’s heard the saying “no news is good news” but that hardly seems like a sound philosophy. No news could mean they’re dead in a ditch somewhere. No news could mean Metatron has somehow enticed them all over to his side. He’s dealt with power vacuums before, especially after Stull sent Michael and Lucifer packing, and he’s seen where that kind of vacancy leads. Hell, he _was_ where that kind of vacancy led, and it wasn’t a good place.

He debates for days. While he does so, his bruises from the bar fight finally fade to just barely visible, and whatever internal damage the beating did seems to be healing at its own, frustratingly slow, almost-human rate. His grace, however, seems less interested in the healing process than he initially hoped. He tries not to think about the possibility that he’s almost snuffed out his stolen grace all because he accidentally ended up on the wrong side of a hotheaded biker gang.

Of course, this grace isn’t his. How much longer it would have lasted sans beating, Cas can’t be sure, but he can’t imagine too long. Weeks. A month or two, maybe. But even then, he couldn’t heal Dean back in that warehouse. Could barely heal that waitress’ finger at the bar. This essence flowing through his veins is not compatible with its host, and subsequently, the host is trying to reject it. He can feel his body fighting the foreign invader, sometimes more often than others. When he goes out in public, he thinks people are starting to notice something off about him, though they can’t parse out exactly what it is. Humans may not be able to look directly at an angel’s grace, but there’s some kind of old genetic quirk that most definitely allows them to pick up on an angel dying. A collective, quiet mourning that Cas knows he doesn’t deserve.

He could still hunt if necessary, though he would hardly make a formidable foe. He tries to spend time in the bunker’s gym, going as many rounds with the punching bag as he can until he collapses onto the mat, exhausted and lost for the breath that he so desperately needs now. Water is good, he knows. For humans, anyway. For bodies. He tries to drink as much as possible, but he goes overboard almost right away and ends up sprawled over the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

It wasn’t this hard the first (second, if he counts his fall during the apocalypse, and third, if he counts his time as Emmanuel) time round, but then again, the first time round Cas wasn’t rotting from the inside out. He tries to imagine what he looks like on the inside, what his true form must be approximating right about now. Something shrivelled, inconsequential. A once mighty being bleeding light, breathing its last, belly to the ground. He’s experienced the dissonance before, the discomfort that stems from existing on multiple planes of existence and not being able to appear as the same being on each one. But it largely faded over time as he learned the nooks and crannies of his new form, of Jimmy Novak, and now the body that belongs fully to him.

Imagining that other self dying, though. Everything majestic he once was, curdled and burnt like the paper kindling he’s seen Dean use to get bonfires started. That, he mourns. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the mirrored pain in his shoulder blades or not, but he feels heavy, nonetheless.    

Despite all this, Cas does his best to keep things running in the bunker. He gets the mail. He does the chores. Sometimes he catches himself putting out an extra place setting for his meals that consist mostly of cereal and sandwiches, and the catch in his chest as he has to decide between either sitting there and staring at while he eats or putting it back in the cupboard.

He continues working with his plants, trying to coax them back to life after almost half a century being buried underground, but they’re reluctant. He’s still not entirely sure what they are, though in his spare time he’s been trying to find pictures online he can compare them to, and digging through old botany textbooks from the library. As far as he can tell, the Men of Letters were growing their own herbs for spell work, and these are the remains.

They grow slowly, and they grow weakly. Cas is gentle with them and waters them every day, but he knows without the right combination of sun and water, they’re going to die no matter how careful he is. Every time he has to give up on a new plant, he feels his chest ache hollowly. He can’t do angelic things anymore, like healing Dean, but he can’t seem to do human things either, like tending to plants. He starts to believe everything withers beneath his touch, despite how gentle his hands are.

One day, he returns to his phone after finishing a load of laundry, and finds a text from an unknown number.

 

**did you fix your phone yet?? is this still even your number, asshole???**

 

He did get a new phone a while ago, but kept the same number. Not that he told anyone, though. Cas stares at it for a minute, before typing out slowly:

 

**who is this?**

 

Just a couple moments later, his phone vibrates again.

 

**cas is this you? i can hear your frown through the screen. my sunshine my angel face my darling.**

 

Cas can’t help it. He lets out a long sigh of relief, slumping back against the couch he’s just collapsed onto, laundry basket on the seat next to him. It’s been about two weeks since Dean called him from the pay phone and more than once he’s found himself spiralling into more and more horrific “what if” scenarios. Every once in a while he would find himself wondering what he would do if Dean just-- disappeared. Just dropped off the map forever. Leaving Cas in an empty bunker full of dead plants, without any idea as to what happened, without anything he could ever do. He types out a reply, not near as desperate as he feels.

 

**Dean, how are you?**

 

Cas sits on the couch and folds laundry, keeping an eye on his phone. It takes Dean longer to reply this time, and when he does, Cas snaps it up immediately, dropping the t-shirt he was folding.

 

**you ask that too much**

 

Cas frowns at the screen, then remembers Dean’s previous text and a strange, aborted laugh tries to climb up his throat. He doubts pure sentiment is going to get through to Dean like this, so he tries to keep it simple.

 

**Only because I think I need to.**

 

The reply comes quicker this time, but when Cas looks at the subject change in the message he realizes why.

 

**just so you know, you won’t be able to trace this phone. permanently disabled gps.**

 

Cas licks his lips in thought. It’s… easier, like this, he thinks. Having a screen and however many miles between him and Dean. His chest still aches, but it’s not necessarily connected to the words his fingers are typing out. This isn’t do or die like it was in the bunker after Dean first woke up, or at the bar Cas found him in. He has time to compose his words, his thoughts. He decides to play Dean’s game, for now.

 

**You keep mentioning just how difficult you’ll be to find. I’m starting to think you want me to chase you.**

 

 He turns on the TV so he doesn’t stew in his thoughts, keeping his hands busy folding the rest of the laundry. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what Dean’s doing. At least before, he always had an idea of where _he_ stood, if not Dean. But their paths have been so intertwined for so long it’s hard to deal with a change in heading this severe. He hopes they’re still going in the same direction, but figures that has yet to be decided.

 

**nothing wrong with playing a little hard to get is there?**

 

Cas swallows. This is flirting. His stomach flips. It makes his cheeks heat, and he hates himself for it. Dean has always resorted to sexual humor or flirtation as a default. Or when he feels backed into a corner. Or when he was just being an asshole, Cas thinks ruefully. The thought distracts him for a moment, and he almost smiles.

Dean flirted with Cas, sometimes. Playfully. Shooting him a look here and a look there and a quirked eyebrow that more often than not had Cas biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Sometimes, something would pass between them that made his throat dry out and his lips part. They never talked about it.

They never really sat and down and talked about how they tended to sway into each other's space, either. About how Dean's hand fit so perfectly, curled happily across his shoulders as they'd sit on the couch and watch old movies together. It always started with Dean just resting his hand along the back of the couch behind Cas, but inevitably by about halfway through the movie Cas would feel a warm weight settle on his far shoulder, and he wouldn't look and he wouldn't lean in, but he'd smile, just enough so Dean could see. So Dean wouldn't let go.

They never talked about why Cas ran away from Dean in Purgatory, alone and in agony at the clutch of Dean's prayers every night, letting them reverberate in his chest until all he could feel was Dean's fear, Dean's anger, Dean's betrayal. Dean's longing.

Dean never asked about the time Cas watched him rake leaves, but that one's on Cas, because Cas never told him. He also never told him about all the copies of him Naomi forced him to kill. But then again, Cas has lived a long time. There’s a lot he’s never told Dean.

Cas looks down at the text again and swallows. He doesn’t know what Dean wants other than to push his buttons. He drums his fingers on the screen. Sighs.

 

**you’d have to tell me where you are**

 

A couple minutes later, his phone vibrates.

 

**that would mean it’s over before we’ve even started**

 

Cas sighs again, resting his elbow on his knee and dropping his forehead into his palm. He stares at the full laundry basket sitting next to him, full of the clothes that he’d folded in between texts. He reaches out with his index finger, pushing at the basket. It wobbles, and the stack of clothes wobbles separately. He grimaces. He’s only doing this because Dean once told him it’s what humans do with their laundry. When he pushes at the basket again, it wobbles more precariously. Cas puts one finger on the side of the basket facing the couch, and slowly pushes it up to and over the edge. When it falls to the floor, the clean clothes come tumbling out, settling into messy piles of dark colors on the bunker floor. Cas stares at them for a while, unmoving and phone in hand.

He’s angry, he thinks. At himself, yes. Always at himself. But he thinks he’s angry at Dean, too. For playing him. For thinking he can just up and turn into a demon and Cas would be _okay_ with it. Dean may have changed that day, but Cas didn’t. Cas just failed, again. Cas just got to watch it all turn to shit, again. Because of him. Because he couldn’t heal Dean when he was dying. 

He kicks the laundry basket from where he’s sitting, watching it bounce pathetically across the room. It comes to a rest near the doorway, perfectly unharmed. He can’t even hurt a plastic laundry basket, and yet somehow he managed to kill Dean. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, listening for the steady inhale and exhale. He always breathed as an angel, though he never needed to. It was more of a holdover from Jimmy, a human quirk on the angelic radar. He used to watch Dean breathe, fascinated by the rise and fall of his chest. Normally it was slow and steady, but sometimes- on a hunt, when he was yelling, when Cas got too close- he could hear the hitch. Those few moments of uncertainty, of instability, when there was always a possibility that that shuddered breath could be his last.

Do demons breathe? It’s amazing, Cas thinks, that he doesn’t know this. A whole host of heavenly knowledge at his disposal, and he doesn’t know something as simple as the function of a respiratory system within a demonic host. He figures heaven never much cared for what lies behind the ribcage.

He starts typing his reply, and he knows this is pushing it. That he’s toeing the line. He’s almost positive there’s some kind of ancient human wisdom about not sending letters angry, but he figures it’s kind of a moot point because he doubts angry people would listen to this advice in the first place. He’s certainly not, anyway.

 

**We never got a chance to start, Dean. I think you know that.**

 

As soon as he presses send, he wants to take it back. The reality of Dean shrugging off his feelings in that bar in Ellsworth constantly nags at him, pulling at his exposed threads. He’s tried not to think about it too much. There’s no way he can bury the grief he’s currently feeling over Dean, but he can at least bury that. He tries telling himself it’s selfish, anyway, to worry about his feelings right now. There are more important things at hand.

There are always more important things at hand.

He stoops and starts picking up the clothes on floor, cleaning up his mess.

Dean doesn’t text him back.


	6. Chapter 6

While Cas continues to debate over what to do about the angels, he also searches for demons. He calls Charlie and asks her to talk him through the omens tracker she installed on both Winchesters’ laptops a couple years ago. When she asks after Dean, Cas just says that he’s still gone.

“You haven’t given up, have you?” Charlie asks worriedly.

“I’m just… looking for something to blow off steam,” Cas says, which is at least a little bit true. It helps that he’s not planning to use the tracker to search for Dean. His motivations are relatively transparent.

“Well… do you want help?” Charlie asks. “Since you’re on your own and all?” When they last spoke a couple weeks ago, Cas had explained- the short version- of what was happening to him and his grace, and Charlie had been horrified and offended on his behalf that Dean had “left in your time of need, dude. Seriously, if he doesn’t start returning my calls I’m going to track him down myself and slap him upside the head.” Cas didn’t bother to tell her that Dean doesn’t know about his current situation, and if he did, it’s unlikely he could be bothered by it. Besides, her concern feels good, even if Cas doesn’t deserve it. It’s nice to know someone cares.

“I should be fine,” Cas lies. This time at least, he’s not lying about Dean, but about himself. Do humans always feel this _empty_? Cas doesn’t remember feeling like that the first time around. In fact, his first time as a human was almost nothing _but_ emotion, unfiltered and overwhelming. His grace hasn’t even burned out completely yet and he feels hollow, already gutted.

 _It’s grief_ , he thinks. The mourning of a man who isn’t even dead.

Charlie sighs into phone, as if debating whether or not to say something. After a moment, she speaks up.

“Cas, it’s been weeks,” she says tiredly, “I’ve known for a while that there’s no way you’re telling me the whole story. Like, I get it. It’s scary to confess feelings, and it’s also scary to be on the receiving end of feelings. But this is _Dean_ we’re talking about here. Yeah, he’s a blockhead sometimes. But he has a good heart. The best heart. No matter which feelings are going in which direction, he wouldn’t just leave you out in the cold like this.”

Cas runs a hand down his face in frustration. Yes, this is Dean they’re talking about. But Cas is talking about Dean the demon and Charlie is talking about Dean the human. Cas hasn’t exactly figured out the distinction- or lack of- quite yet between the two.

Charlie doesn’t sound mad about the lie. If anything, she sounds sympathetic. She waits patiently on the other end of the line for Cas to gather his thoughts, to decide if he wants to come clean.

“You’re right,” he admits. “I’ve left parts out.” So he does. At least a little bit. He doesn’t offer up any other information, and Charlie doesn’t ask. At least his dishonesty is out in the open now. It almost makes him feel worse when Charlie still offers to help him, and they spend the rest of the phone call working on the omen tracker.

When they’re about to part ways, Charlie says, “I don’t want you to give up hope, Cas, and I don’t want to overstep, but Dean cares about you a lot, no matter what he says.” After a hesitation, she adds, “Trust me, I’ve gotten drunk with the dude a couple times. He cares.”

Cas doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks it makes him feel marginally better.

“Thank you, Charlie,” he says. “For everything. You’ve been very kind.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” Charlie replies, smile in her voice. “Take care of yourself, Cas. Peace out.”

Cas says goodbye and hangs up. He pulls his phone away from his ear, and for a minute, just stares at it, smile barely visible on his face.

He almost drops it when it starts vibrating in his hand. At first, he thinks it’s some kind of follow up text from Charlie, but he doesn’t recognize the number. Then he realizes it’s not a text at all, but a phone call, and he quickly swipes his screen to answer.

“Hello?” he asks, no idea who could be calling him that he doesn’t already have in his contacts list. Perhaps it’s another telemarketer. He used to have some interesting conversations with telemarketers before Dean finally told him that he would probably be better off not answering, and that their long distance plan is fine, thanks.

“Hello,” a female voice says, and Cas tries to place it but fails. “Is this Castiel’s phone number?”

“Who is this?”

“Castiel, angel of the lord?” she asks, ignoring him.

“I… doubt there are many other Castiel’s out there,” he says carefully, though he’s tempted to add “former” to the beginning of that particular title. ”What do you want?”

“My name is Hannah,” the woman says. “I’m a fallen angel.”

Cas blanches.

“How did you get this number?” he asks, suddenly wary. This could be any number of tricks to find out his location or get information.

“Sam Winchester gave us your contact information.”

“ _What_? Where? When?... _Why_?”

“He also told us to tell you that he’s fine, but he needs time.”

“Shit,” Cas says. “Shit, did he give you his number?”

“His… number?” she asks, confused.

“ _Phone number_ ,” Cas snaps. “Or any way to contact him?”

“Oh. No.”

Cas massages his temples. “Where did you see him? And why the hell would he give you _my_ contact information?”

On the other end, Cas can hear Hannah muttering quietly to what sounds like other people in the background. After a moment, she comes back on the line.

“We can give you that information, but you must meet with me,” she says prudently. “In exchange for the information, we want something in return from you.”

“What is this ‘us’ and ‘we’?” Cas asks. “How many of you are there?”

“I’ll explain when we meet.”

Cas stares at the laptop still running the demonic omen tracker, closing his eyes. He wanted to get back in with the angels, and an opportunity has just landed right in front of him, but he’s suddenly having a hard time getting the word “yes” past his lips. (He idly wonders if this is a mere inkling of how Dean and Sam felt during the apocalypse.)

Rationally, taking this meeting is probably the smartest thing he can do. He’ll meet this Hannah and figure out what’s been going on, and also get closer to finding Sam. But at the same time, there’s a possibility that getting back into this means less time to spend searching for a cure for Dean, and searching for Dean in general. He feels the guilt gnawing at him, caught between fixing two of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made (and that’s saying a lot, since he’s made a lot of mistakes in his long existence).

“Where?” Cas forces out, and feels like just by uttering the word he’s betraying Dean, somehow.

She gives him the address of a diner in Hardin, Montana.

“Tomorrow?” she asks.

“Tomorrow,” Cas agrees. He thinks for a moment, then adds, “Come alone.”

***

It’s just under a twelve hour drive to Hardin, and Cas only stops the minimum number of times for gas and bathroom breaks. He checks into a local motel, drops his borrowed duffel bag onto the desk chair, and falls onto the uncomfortable bed, exhausted despite the large amount of coffee and energy drinks zinging through him. He just manages to set an alarm on his phone for 2:30 before passing out, giving him half an hour to get to the diner, and then falls into blissful sleep. He’s so tired, in fact, he doesn’t think about how easy it is to fall under sleep’s spell, to be subject to such organic confines.     

He almost sleeps through his alarm, exhausted as he is, but he manages to roll out of bed before he can fall back under again. Pushing through a drive that long did little to help the weariness that now seems to be perpetually clouding him. _At least_ , he thinks as he splashes cold water on his face in the bathroom _, you can’t see the bruises from the bar fight anymore_. He still looks like he’s been put through the wringer, his hair stands tall on one side and is completely flattened on the other, and the shadows under his eyes are more pronounced than ever. He does what he can with his hair, which isn’t much, showers, and changes into a new set of clothes that aren’t stiff from twelve hours of creaky leather and sweat. He’s still wearing Dean’s clothes, and his excuse is that he doesn’t want to spend the extra money. Not when he’s still so new to actually having to keep an eye on finances. Of course, Dean’s clothes are also soft and comfortable and smell like him. But if anyone asks, it’s the finances.

He arrives at the diner five minutes after three. It’s a typical roadside place, neon ‘open’ sign buzzing in the window and a sign claiming the best cherry pie in the state. Cas wishes Dean was around to confirm or deny that claim, but as he enters the diner, he tries to shake that thought off. He gets hailed over to a booth in the corner by a woman in a grey blazer. Cas approaches, waving off the friendly hostess with a tired smile, and stands beside the booth.

“Hello, Castiel,” the woman says, and it’s the same voice from the phone. Cas can see the spark of surprise in her eyes when she takes in his appearance.

“Hannah,” Cas inclines his head and slides into the booth across from her. Her vessel is a pretty woman with pale skin and brown hair, and blue eyes that, strangely enough, remind Cas of his own. He recognizes the look in those eyes. It was exactly how he watched the world when he first took Jimmy Novak as a vessel back in 2008. Detached. Cool. Logical.

“I’m told it’s customary for me to ask after you,” she says, “So how are you, Castiel?” She eyes him. “You don’t look very good at all.”

“It’s also customary to let your conversational partner answer before you answer for them,” Cas says coolly. He’s not here for pleasantries.

“Your appearance is relevant to our deal,” Hannah tells him. “As is your ability.” She blinks. “Are you sick? Have you been infected by a human virus?”

Cas thought for sure by now that every angel would know about him stealing the grace, but perhaps not. He supposes the interruption in angel radio after the fall and the subsequent dividing into separate camps caused a sufficient enough distraction that his blasphemy managed to get lost in the shuffle. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, that his sins have gone unnoticed amongst all the other atrocities his siblings are committing.

“No,” he tells Hannah, “I’m fine. This is just what my… vessel looks like.” He trips a little over the word vessel. Body. This is what his body looks like.

“Humans are very strange,” Hannah muses, obviously finding nothing amiss. She leans forward, looking at him intently. “You look like you have bruises under your eyes,” she observes. “Is that normal?”

Cas brings a hand to his face, for a second thinking she must be talking about the bruises from the bar brawl, but she’s not. Those have all but disappeared. His fingers fall on the thin skin beneath his eyes, and he realizes what she’s talking about.

“Humans call them… under-eye circles,” he says. “They just mean I’m tired.”

“You sleep?” Hannah asks.

Cas glances down at the table, then looks up towards the front of the diner. He makes eye contact with a waitress and she makes her way over.

“Are you going to order?” Cas asks, just as the waitress arrives at their table.

Hannah looks at him strangely.

“No. I don’t eat.”

The waitress’ eyes widen a little at that, and she directs her gaze at Cas.

“Anything for you, sir?” she asks, still glancing at Hannah oddly out of the corner of her eye.

“Just coffee, thank you,” Cas says.

The waitress stuffs her notepad in the front pocket of her apron.

“Back in a jiffy,” she promises, nodding at Cas and walking away.

After a moment, Cas looks back up to find Hannah once again staring directly at him. It unnerves him, and he wonders if this is how Dean felt back when they first met, when Cas couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off him.

“Falling took its toll on us in different ways,” he says carefully. “Some of us died. Some of us got lucky and lost only our wings.” He nods at Hannah. “I got somewhere in between,” he lies, though he can hardly say, _my grace was used in the spell to close heaven, and it’s my fault that you’re all stuck here. I was rendered completely human, kicked out of the one place I could potentially call home, forced to work at a Gas’n’Sip- you probably don’t know what that is- and sleep in the storeroom, and then murder another angel in order to save my own skin._

Even if he did tell Hannah, he doubts the pathos would sway her. As it is, she watches him with considering eyes.

“I’d like to start talking about the deal now,” she says, just as the waitress brings Cas a mug. She pours him the coffee, leaves him with some small creamer cups, and Cas thanks her as she walks away. It seems to distract Hannah.

“That’s the second time you’ve thanked that woman,” she says curiously. “She was merely doing her job. Why did you thank her?”

Cas raises his eyebrows. Was he really like this at the beginning?

“It’s courteous to say please and thank you,” he says. “Working in the service industry can be… difficult. And I doubt she gets paid much. Hopefully even the smallest kindnesses can make her day better, or at the very least, not worse than it already is.” Cas can relate. He had to deal with a lot of truck drivers at the Gas’n’Sip and not all of them were overflowing with courtesies.

Hannah is staring at him, somewhat agog.

“You’ve been on earth for a long time,” she states, almost in awe. 

“It feels like it,” Cas agrees, and suddenly feels the fatigue really start plucking behind his eyes again. He takes a sip of coffee before it’s had a chance to cool, scalding his mouth.

“What do you want from me, Hannah?” he asks.

“I’ll tell you,” Hannah says, back to business, “and you will say yes, and then I will give you the information you desire about Sam Winchester.”

Cas figures there’s other angels either in the diner itself or positioned outside it to deal with him if things go south, so he merely nods.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Hannah interlaces her fingers on the table, and Cas wonders if her vessel is a banker or some kind of account manager. That’s what he would guess. Jimmy was an ad man, so he has limited knowledge on the subject. It’s in the way her hands are folded and the posture she sits with. Sometimes the line between vessel and angel is very thin at the beginning, and it’s the angel’s responsibility to broaden it, to separate themselves from the vessel.

“We want you to help us fight Metatron,” she says. “The ones who left with you after you killed Bartholomew are with us, since you seemingly abandoned them, but we’d like you to come back to us, Castiel. As a brother.”

Cas sighs, but he doesn’t think Hannah understands the gesture.

“Leaving them behind was… ill advised,” he admits. “But there were other matters at hand.”

Hannah’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Yes,” she says, disapproval apparent in her voice, “No one is quite sure what happened to you these past couple months. Apparently some of the angels are taking… bets?” She sounds like she hardly understands the concept. It appears that some angels have taken to humanity better than others. “The majority of them seem to think it had something to do with Dean Winchester.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas brushes her off. “I’m here now.”

Hannah cocks her head.

“Are you?” she asks. “Your loyalties lie completely with us?”

“Does the answer to that question matter?” Cas asks. “From what I’ve gathered, my only choice is to join you.”

“That’s not-”

“I don’t know if you’d kill me if I said no, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be the last I’d hear from you if I did,” Cas interrupts her, and her jaw clicks shut. “So, fine. I’m with you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a lone woman at the counter eyeing them somewhat conspicuously over her shoulder, not even a cup of coffee in front of her. It could just be a nosy patron, but somehow Cas doubts it. When he sees Hannah shoot her a look and she drops her gaze, Cas knows he’s right.

“Well in that case, I’d like you to take over,” Hannah says.

Cas sits back in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Hannah shrugs. “It’s what they want.”

“I assumed you were in charge,” Cas says.

“I’m in charge of _them_ ,” Hannah says. “Recruitment. You’d be running the operation.”

“The… operation.”

“We already have a base since some of us were lucky enough to procure hosts of substantial financial means. Any and all intelligence on Metatron goes through you. You decide tactics, teams, strategy, whatever you feel you need.”

Cas’ last job interview was at a Gas’n’Sip.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says. Then, hesitantly, “I don’t have the best track record of being in charge.”

“No, you don’t,” Hannah agrees. “But they don’t seem to care. They look up to you.”

The idea of _anyone_ looking up to him sets him on edge, and Cas shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. He’s hardly anything to aspire to.

Hannah, however, seems once again unwilling to take no for an answer, and is uninterested in his reluctance.

“Our base is just outside Marshalltown, Iowa,” she says, sliding a piece of paper across the table to him. “That’s the address. We’d prefer if you were out there in the next couple of days.”

Cas doesn’t touch the paper.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “Now that I’ve agreed, I believe it’s your turn.”

“Of course,” Hannah says briskly. “Sam Winchester. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Cas says immediately.

“Very well.” Hannah moves her interlocked hands to her lap. “A group of us were in Maryland, tracking down another group of angels who had been causing trouble. We were hoping to convince them to join our cause, aid us in the fight against Metatron. However, we weren’t the only ones interested in these angels.”

“Sam,” Cas prompts.

Hannah nods, her face darkening. “Yes, but he wasn’t interested in the fight against Metatron. We found him interrogating the angels, torturing them. He had killed all the ones he had talked to, and refused to tell us _why_ he was doing what he was.”

Cas drops his gaze to the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Hannah’s expression turns into one of consternation.

“It’s been… difficult,” she admits. “They were angry and scared, and were hurting humans and fellow angels alike. I didn’t particularly want to recruit them, but I figured we had to try. If it didn’t work out, I was prepared to do what I had to do.” She seems uncomfortable for the first time since Cas sat down. “I was almost thankful that Sam Winchester got there first.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, and Hannah continues, “We talked to him. Well. First we tied him up, then we talked to him. A few of our siblings wanted to kill him for what he did, but I stopped them.”

“Thank you,” Cas rushes out, but Hannah doesn’t warm.

“I didn’t do it for him,” she says. “We needed you, and to get you, we needed him. Alive.”

“Thank you,” Cas repeats, and she still ignores him.

“In exchange for your contact information, we helped him track another rogue angel, the one he was searching for.”

Cas sighs inwardly. He can’t say he didn’t expect this. He wanted to believe Sam was off somewhere simply grieving, needing time alone, but this, unfortunately, is much more fitting to Sam’s character. He’s chasing the angel he thinks killed Dean.

It’s not like Cas hasn’t thought about it. But as soon as Dean woke up a demon, his priorities completely reshuffled, sending any thoughts of revenge to the bottom of the list. Besides, he blames himself for Dean’s death more than he could ever blame another angel.

“Who was it,” Cas asks after taking another sip of the coffee he’d almost completely forgotten about. It’s too cold, now, but he drinks it anyway.

“Eae.”

“How long ago?”

“Last week.”

“And where did you track him to?”

“Appleton, Wisconsin.”

“And is that the direction you sent Sam in?” Cas asks, all too aware that they could have easily lead him astray.

Hannah is unimpressed.

“Yes,” she says, “I have no reason to lie to Sam Winchester. I can’t take care of all the rogue angels on my own.”

Cas stands up, dropping a couple bills onto the table.

“I need to go,” he says. “Please search for Eae and keep me updated. I’ll be in Iowa soon. Goodbye.”

As soon as he starts walking away, about ten different sets of eyes follow him to the exit, and he silently approves of Hannah’s wariness. He wouldn’t trust himself either.

***

Dean sends a text to Cas.

 

**long time no see huh? you should meet me.**

 

After he got into that scrape with the hunters in the bar- what the hell were their names? Something that started with a P, maybe? C? Dean took off pretty fast in the other direction. No Lebanon, no bunker, no hanging around in places they could potentially find him, and definitely no hanging around Cas when he feels like he wants to kill things almost 24/7. Even the vaguest thought of slicing an angel makes the Mark flare in excitement, and Dean grips his forearm and rolls his eyes.

“You’re really starting to piss me off, you know that?” he asks it as he drives. It continues to smoulder under his (new) jacket, unbidden.

It’s fun being not-good. Dean doesn’t really think of his human self as good and he doesn’t really think he’s a particularly sadistic demon, so calling himself “bad” as if it’s a newly acquired trait seems kind of dumb. He’s nicked the wallets of some upstanding citizens and may flash his black eyes at unsuspecting people when they piss him off too much, but that’s hardly different from the credit card fraud and interrogation habits he picked up as a human.

Really, the biggest difference he’s come to appreciate about the whole demonic thing is that things just hurt less, and in a more manageable way. Nightmares don’t plague him daily anymore. He can hear the name Mary without checking out for the next three hours. He misses Sam, but not in the way he was always taught to miss Sam. He doesn’t miss him obsessively, like a limb’s been ripped from him. He doesn’t feel the need to save or sacrifice or tear the world apart searching for the brother he hasn’t spoken to in weeks. Maybe a phone call wouldn’t hurt. But Dean and Sam have been twisted up together for so goddam long that Dean almost forgot what it was like to breathe, and here he is now, the cool air of a summer night filling the Impala as he whips up the I-90 from Dallas, where he spent the last few days eating the best barbeque of his life.

It wasn’t perfect- almost the entire time, the Mark was throbbing. Being around so much meat and blood? It fucked with Dean. Maybe a lot. Between cookoffs he killed a chupacabra and a couple vamps, and it took the edge off. He rolled their bodies into a swamp near the motel he was crashing in, and once he was really skating the line of a massacre, blood pumping and hands sweating, he’d duck out for a couple hours to either scout for another kill or return to the swamp and use the bodies he’d already accumulated, trying to pretend they were fresh victims. The Mark didn’t buy it, but stabbing something that could still bleed, even sluggishly, helped. Dean tries not to think about what the bodies looked like by the time he was finished with them, already half submerged in the murky water. He figured the alligators would take care of the rest.  

His phone lights up with the return text from Cas.

 

**When and where?**

 

And Dean feels his mouth tug into a small half-smile because Cas is always the wild card, isn’t he? As a human, Dean always wanted to spend more time with him, always wanted to get closer, but was too chicken shit to ever say anything. Not that he’s being particularly forthcoming as a demon, but there’s been a strange feeling simmering away in his gut for the last couple weeks. It took him a while to figure out what, exactly, it was, but he thinks he’s finally pegged it. Despite the black eyes, the new low-sodium diet, and even the bloodlust, Dean figures he’s about as happy as he could possibly be (if he tries really, really hard that is). Half the time he’s sure it’s the Mark, corrupting him in subtler ways than an urge to kill, but the other half, he’s convinced he knows exactly what he’s talking about. And he knows Cas hates it, but maybe if he could persuade him to call off the hunt and just accept Dean for what he is, then, well. Maybe that would be the time to finally say something. If Dean is as happy as happy gets, wouldn’t that be better for Cas than some mopey, depressed, human version of him? As a demon, he could give Cas a much greater bang for his buck.

Or maybe this is all horseshit. He thinks about the bodies in Texas. The hunters at the bar- he remembers now, it was Eric and Paul. The sales guy in Oklahoma City. Even tossing Cas down that bunker hallway the first night he turned.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Smells the night air. Tells himself to keep it simple.

Dean types out an address and a time a couple days from now, hits send. After a moment’s consideration, he adds,

 

**only if you think I’m worth a drive to vermont :)**

 

He snorts when he imagines Cas’ reaction to the dumb smiley face, and when his phone lights up just a minute later, he actually laughs out loud at what he sees, trying to shake off any lingering doubts. His arm hurts.

 

**see you there :)**

 

Okay, so Cas wants to play that game. Dean should’ve known.

He tosses his phone into the passenger’s seat, fully rolls down the windows, and blasts music loud enough that it rumbles his replacement Impala’s frame. He has to say, this car drives pretty nice. It’s still an abomination and not even close to a replacement for his baby.

But it does drive nice.

***

The reason he dragged Cas all the way to Vermont wasn’t just on some random whim. Before leaving Texas he spent a day or so researching a new hunt, hoping for something to really sink his teeth into. According to a few less reputable sites on the internet, there’s some activity happening up in northern Vermont that he thinks may be djinn related, if only because the (unreliable) witness statements talk about glowing blue eyes and face tattoos. He grabbed some lamb’s blood from a butcher’s, stuck it in the cooler in the back seat, sharpened his silver knife, and headed out.

Hopefully he doesn’t run into anything with a weakness for iron or salt anytime soon. He supposes he could wear gloves, but so far he’s been lucky. The woodchipper is always an option for the corporeal baddies, anyway. A salt’n’burn may prove trickier.

It’s raining lightly when he pulls into the parking lot of the diner he’s meeting Cas at, nodding in approval at the shoddy neon and the peeling paint. It’s a tiny, out of the way place that seems to love its pie, so consensus is that Dean probably loves it. He spies the Continental parked on the other side of the lot, and ignores the flip of his stomach, writing it off as hunger that he’s still not entirely sure he can feel. The Blade is warm against his skin. He flashes a quick smile in the side mirror of the Impala, and double fingerguns at his reflection.

He swaggers into the restaurant, making eye contact with Cas in a corner booth almost immediately. Cas is nursing a mug of coffee, and when he meets Dean’s eye he looks like he’s caught between smiling and glaring. Trying to make up for the both of them, he turns on his best megawatt smile as he slides into the seat opposite Cas.

“Howdy, sunshine.” he says, casually letting his gaze wander up and down Cas’ torso. It takes him about two seconds to make the connection, and then he feels unexpected warmth undulate in his chest.

“Nice threads,” he grins, nodding at the brown plaid Cas is wearing. “Coulda sworn I had one just like it.” 

If Cas were a blushing kind of guy, Dean’s pretty sure his face would be flaming. As it is, he looks almost grumpy to be called out on it.

“Hello, Dean,” he says. Then, cooler, eyeing Dean’s new jacket, “Yes, I borrowed some of your clothes. You seem to have gone shopping as well.” Cas is trying to hide it, but Dean can see the genuine upset in his eyes. Does he know about Oklahoma City?

“You look like shit, man,” Dean observes. It’s been a while since he’s seen Cas, more than a couple weeks, and Cas looks like a human who went twelve rounds with insomnia and lost- or won, whatever. Whatever’s worse when it comes to insomnia. Dean’s been there. “What’s up with that?”

Cas is rocking some serious third day stubble and his hair is standing almost straight up, and he runs a hand through it with a sigh. Dean feels his brows rise.

“Did I not mention the side effects of stealing another angel’s grace?” he says wryly. He gestures to himself. “Well here you go.”

Dean’s eyes widen.

“You’re…” he blinks. “Human?” Now isn’t that a strange thought. Cas the human, Dean the demon.

Cas actually chuckles, which immediately throws up another red flag. 

“No,” he says, and Dean can detect the faint notes of hysteria developing under that tone as sure as he can smell when a rainstorm’s coming. It may not be coming for a while, but it’s coming. “Not exactly.”

“Well then what are y-” Dean starts, but Cas shoots him such a sharp look that Dean doesn’t even finish his question.

“Why did you call me here, Dean?” Cas asks, softer. Relenting. “Somehow I doubt it’s because you want to come home.”

 _Because I want to see you_ , Dean thinks immediately. _Because by the next time I see you I may not even be myself anymore. Because this Mark might finally burn me out for good. Because a pissed hunter looking for revenge may show up and chop off my head. Because this may as well be a last supper._

He clears his throat.

“Can’t a demon just call up an old angelic pal and chat over steaks?” he asks instead.

Cas gives him a withering look.

“‘Pal’”, he fingerquotes bitterly. “And I’m not going to eat steak at an establishment like this, Dean.”

“I just- Jesus, you’re a grumpy fuck. What the hell have you been into since I’ve been gone?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Do you really want to get into that?” he asks. “ _Really_?” 

Before Dean can answer that, the waitress comes to take their orders. More out of spite than anything, Dean orders the steak. Cas rolls his eyes at him and orders a burger.

Cas glares at him after she leaves, but obviously decides it’s not worth the effort because he drops it after only a moment. He sighs, glancing down at the table, and Dean catches himself thinking that Cas rarely has a problem meeting his eye. It stings.

“How have you been?” Cas asks. “The last time we spoke you didn’t sound so good.”

Dean drums his fingers on the table, and steals a sip of Cas’ coffee to buy himself some time. Coffee doesn’t seem to do him much good anymore.

“Peachy keen,” he says, sliding the mug back across the table to Cas. Cas takes the mug, his fingers briefly brushing Dean’s. “You?”

“I don’t believe you,” Cas says. Then adds, “I’ve been fine.”

“Well I don’t believe you either, how about that,” Dean says.

Cas meets his gaze again, and when he says, “Why won’t you just come _home_ ,” like he’s kept these words in his pocket, like they’re something he’s taken out whenever he gets lonely, a photograph to stare at, edges creased and fold lines firmly indented, it’s Dean’s turn to look away, because things have gotten a lot more complicated than, _I’m a demon and it’s fun_.

He doesn’t want to hurt Cas. He can’t stick around one place too long. He doesn’t want to see Cas’ face when he realizes Dean thinks about killing things all day every day, and he certainly doesn’t want to see Cas’ face when he watches Dean kill something nasty and stab it twenty-six times even though the first thrust did the trick. There’s no cure.

But Cas. It always seems to come back to Cas.

Instead of saying any of this, Dean taps at where the Blade is tucked into his waistband with a knowing look. Cas’ eyes drop to his torso and then back up to his face.

“I can hide it,” Cas blurts. “Find a way to destroy it. Pay, I don’t know, Crowley to send it to the moon. We can get rid of it, Dean.”

Dean feels defensiveness flicker down his spine, and the Blade warms considerably. The Mark sparks.

“What if I don’t want to?” Dean challenges, pulling his jacket so that it covers the bulge of the Blade.

“That’s the Mark talking,” Cas says firmly, and Dean feels his eyes narrow.

“Are you sure?” he asks, leaning forward. “Because I’m pretty sure you’ve felt compelled to make decisions without my input before. How about you let me tell you which part of me is talking?”

Cas’ feathers look undoubtedly ruffled, and Dean thinks, _great last supper_ , before Cas’ eyes flash in recognition.

“So you’re admitting you feel like the Blade and Mark are separate from you?” he asks. “That’s good. That’s a start.”

“You need to stop telling me shit about me,” Dean warns, and he swears he can hear the Mark egging him on.

“Well in this case, Dean, it’s probably what’s best,” Cas says in an infuriatingly superior tone, echoes of the self-important stick-up-the-ass he used to be trickling down his words, “Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself.” And that actually does trigger something, long repressed and maybe not-as-dealt-with as Dean thought.

“Really?” he says quietly, dangerously. “You thought you were doing ‘what’s best’ when you inhaled an entire purgatory’s worth of leviathans. You thought you were doing ‘what’s best’ when you became God,” his voice grows quieter, “You thought you were doing ‘what’s best’ when you ditched me in purgatory for months on end. Or when you shoved me into that portal out on my own, leaving me to think that was _my fault_. Or when you beat the shit outta me in Lucifer’s crypt and then just fluttered off like I was gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe you finally managed to peel off.” The memories resonate differently as a demon, carry less punch, but Dean can’t stop the way his voice starts to stretch out, reed-thin, by the end. Muscle memory and all, he figures. He shrugs out of his jacket and yanks the sleeve of his sweater up where the Mark sits, a deep, angry red. Cas’ eyes widen, tracing the spiderweb of red lines that extend outwards from it, looking like cracks in Dean’s skin. 

 “I’m looking at this,” Dean says, nodding towards his arm, “And I’m looking at your track record, and I’m thinking out of the two? I kind of wanna go with my friend Cain here.” More to the point, though, he wants to hurt Cas. Because he can. Because he’s a demon and it’s not supposed to hurt when he lashes out at the ones he loves.

Cas looks at him a long time, and Dean sees about every shitty emotion in the book of shit pass behind his eyes.

“Dean-” he starts, pained, but the waitress is suddenly back, lying two plates between them, and he clams right up.

“Did you two need anything else?” she asks, obviously trying to ignore the tension between them. After a second of awkward silence, Cas stands up.

“No, thank you,” he says shakily. “I think we’re done here.” He brushes by the waitress and heads for the door. Dean swears under his breath and digs for his wallet, pulling out way too many bills and slapping them down on the table. He grabs his jacket and slides out of the booth.

“Sorry,” he says, winking distractedly at the waitress. He flaps an arm at their untouched food. “You guys eat those or give them to a homeless dude or something.”

It’s raining harder out now, hard enough that Dean can hear the smattering of drops on car roofs. He walks into the small parking lot, yelling for Cas.

He blunders around like an idiot for a couple minutes before he spots him leaning against the side of the diner, arms crossed and staring firmly at the ground, protected from the rain only by the short metal awning of the diner’s roof. He hurries towards him, slowing to a walk once he gets out from under the rain.

“Cas, man,” he says, “Fine, maybe I crossed a line in there but can we not do the big emotional thing where I chase you out into the pouring rain and we talk feelings or whatever?”

Cas is already shaking his head, bringing one hand up to massage his temples.

“You’re right,” he mumbles. He glances hopelessly up at Dean, shrugging. “You’re right,” he repeats, and it’s terrifyingly sincere. “You’re completely right. I’ve fucked up. Multiple times. And badly. I hurt a lot of people, and I hurt you. I’m the last person who should be deciding what’s best for you.” The rain pounds down around them, and Dean hears a rumble of thunder off in the distance. He reaches out a hand, pressing it to the brick just above Cas’ shoulder. They’re both sopping wet and most definitely looking pathetic as fuck, and Dean thinks maybe it’s the torrential rain, or maybe it’s Cas looking at him like he is, or maybe it’s both, but the Mark, for just a second, is drowned out by the din. In that same second, Dean feels very, very human.

“It’s getting bad, Cas,” he admits, closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his forehead against Cas’ in defeat. Even now, in this moment of respite, he can feel the heat under his skin. “It’s getting real bad.” He puts his other hand above Cas’ other shoulder, brick rough against his palm, effectively trapping Cas between his arms. A warm hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck, and despite the cold and the rain and the red heat that the Mark is constantly churning inside him, this is a different kind of warmth. The kind of warmth Dean wants to arch into.

Cas sighs, shuddering, into the space between them. He brings his hand to Dean’s cheek, and Dean swallows hard, trying to chase the warmth. Always trying to chase the warmth.

“We’ll fix it,” he promises, and Dean can feel the words reverberate in the air between them. “Dean, I give you my word. It’s not much, but I swear on it. We’ll put it back together.”

He wishes saving himself was as easy as closing the distance between them. He wishes leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Cas’ would erase the Mark on his arm and the shadows from his eyes. They’re so close they’re breathing the same air, and Dean swallows hard. It would be so easy to fall into Cas. But he knows it’s not going to stick. This is a momentary respite. A blip on the radar. A brief glimpse of lucidity before being pulled back under.

They already used their get out of jail free card. They’ve already saved the day with love once, twice, too many times before. The Mark isn’t possession. It’s an invasion. An infiltration. And it’s won. It’s occupied the home base.

He’s reminded violently of this when he steps too close to Cas, and the Blade brushes his torso. Even through two layers of clothing, the Blade wakes up with a start, burning every ounce of the good warmth out of Dean’s veins, replacing it with its own icy hot tongue. He drops his head into the space between them, hissing in air through his teeth and feeling his eyes involuntarily switch to black, the Mark reasserting itself. Cas’ hands drop off him for only a moment, and then recalibrate, both hands coming back to rest on either side of his face.

“Dean?” Cas asks, worry lacing his voice, “Dean, please look at me.”

Dean’s clenching his left hand hard enough that he can feel his palm start to bleed, but his right hand refuses to close, twitching in anticipation of how the Blade is going to feel as he drives it through Cas’ torso and- and--

He yanks himself out of Cas’ grip, having just enough presence of mind to dip his hand into the front pocket of Cas’ jeans, managing to slip the Continental’s keys out unnoticed amidst the chaos. Too late he thinks, _those are my jeans_ , because his very next thought is, _I want to kill Cas_.

Too much.

He stumbles away, but Cas follows, grabbing him by the (left, thankfully) arm.

“Dean,” he begs, “Dean, you’ve got to stay with me, please, we were-”

Dean knocks him off again, trying to think through the whirlwind in his brain. He needs to get the hell out of here and kill something, and it looks like it’s the djinn’s time to shine. Even though he knows the address of the abandoned warehouse off by heart he also has it written down on a torn piece of notebook paper in his jacket pocket, and he clings to that instead of reaching for the Blade, rubbing it between his fingers. With his other hand he digs for the set of keys he had made for the Impala, unlocking it from halfway across the parking lot.

Cas keeps trying to talk to him, and Dean continues to ignore him. When he reaches out, Dean swats him away. He blinks furiously, trying to get rid of the black eyes, but they refuse to disappear. The Mark pulses in time with his own heartbeat, and he can hear it everywhere- in his fingertips, under his skin, behind his eyes. The rain whips into them, and Dean wonders if the drops make the same sound bouncing off the roof of the cars as they do hitting his set jaw.

When Dean reaches the driver’s side of the Impala, Cas makes the mistake of reaching for his right arm, grabbing him tightly right where the Mark sits, and the Mark revolts. Faster than Dean thought possible, his hands are fisted in the front of Cas’ shirt and he’s slamming him against the car, rage pounding hot through him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, “You need to back off _now._ ”

Cas, somehow, has gone pliant in his grasp, simply watching him. Dean catches his reflection briefly in the tinted windows of the Impala, and his eyes still haven’t returned to green. It’s blue gazing into black.

Cas doesn’t say anything, just stares at Dean. It enrages him, it enrages the Mark, and with one hand still fisted in the front of his own shirt on Cas, he scrabbles at his jeans to yank the Blade out. They’re in the middle of a goddam parking lot in the middle of what’s practically a typhoon, and all Dean wants to do is shove this Blade into the soft flesh of Cas’ maybe-human stomach and ride the high of that kill all the way to the djinn’s hideout, because he’s starting to realize now that one is never going to be enough. Cas is going to become a mere link in a never ending trail of bodies that’s going to follow Dean for the rest of his life. Cas is- he’s going- he could never _kill_ -

“Do it,” Cas says quietly, calmly, the words cleaving through Dean like someone just pulled his ripcord. Everything in him freezes. Suddenly the only thing in the world that’s moving is the raindrops between them. He blinks, and feels his eyes slither back to their original green. He searches Cas’ expression, desperation quickly mounting alongside the bloodlust. For one clear, crystalline moment, everything recedes enough for him to think, in an act of unbridled fear, _I’m so incredibly in love with you_. Cas is just staring at him plainly, as if daring Dean to make him repeat himself.

Dean wants to stay, want to demand answers as to what the fuck Cas thinks he’s saying, but he can’t take that risk. With the modicum of control he currently has, he shoves Cas to the side and climbs into the car, peeling out of the parking lot as fast as humanly possible. He tosses the Continental’s keys onto the side of the road to give himself time to get away, making sure Cas sees them. As he rockets down the highway and towards a curve in the road that will fully obscure the diner and its parking lot from view, he glances in the rear view mirror and watches Cas watching him. Cas bends down to pick up something up off the ground, the rain slanting his view, and then Dean makes the turn.


	7. Chapter 7

According to the witness reports, the djinn was spotted in an abandoned sawmill just on the outskirts of Birmingham, far enough away that it’s unlikely to be disturbed by curious passersby. The sawmill is the only thing for miles, meaning Dean won’t have to spend hours searching through an entire block of abandoned buildings, which he’s thankful for. Frankly, he’s not sure the Mark would last that long, if the way it’s been pumping under his skin ever since the diner is any indication.

At one point, between the diner and the mill, it got so bad that Dean thought for sure he’d have to pull over and duck into the forest banking the side of the road to find an animal he could kill, if only to take the edge off. He managed to sweat his way through, though, gritting his teeth and trying to think of anything but the fire slowly consuming him from the inside out.

As soon as he spots the first tip of the mill between the trees, he slows down. He can’t hide the Impala too far away, in case any of the victims are still alive and need to be taken to the nearest hospital, but getting too close could give him away almost immediately. It’s hard to think through the Mark’s haze, but Dean’s pretty sure he finds a spot that serves all possible needs.

His breathing echoes inside his own head as he makes his way to the sawmill’s entrance, Blade heavy in a hand that’s only slightly trembling and knife dipped in lamb’s blood in his back pocket. He’s never actually gone through withdrawal before, but he wonders if this is what it’s like. The sweating, the indeterminately blurry vision, the shaking. His mouth is so dry it feels like sandpaper. There’s a forgotten pile of logs near the front entrance that Dean finds himself leaning against, dragging his palm along the rough bark if only to remind himself that he is, indeed, here. He tries promising the Mark that blood isn’t that far away, that a djinn is quite powerful and should sate it for at _least_ a while, but the Mark doesn’t seem to care. It continues to throb under him and in him and in his head and his heart, and Dean wonders if this is all because it lost control for that one moment at the diner.

He drags himself away from the support of the logs, swaying up to the entrance that’s long been in disuse, pressing the flat of the Blade to the door and opening it slowly. There are no tracks in the dust on the floor to indicate anyone’s used this entrance for a long time, but that hardly means anything. There’s always more than one way into these places, and if Dean were doing this hunt by the book, he’d probably check all possible points of entrance before heading in. As it is, he slips inside, readjusting his sweaty grip on the Blade and trying to urge his roiling stomach to calm down. He hasn’t eaten anything since Texas, so he has nothing to throw up other than that sip of coffee he stole from Cas and maybe a lung or two if he heaves hard enough. He’s been a demon for weeks now and he’s still not entirely sure if he needs food or not. He eats when he feels like it, and he hasn’t collapsed yet. Most of the time the things he finds himself hungry for aren’t exactly what you’d find on a restaurant’s menu.

He realizes he doesn’t even have a flashlight with him as he makes his way down the hallway. The only illumination is from the watery sunlight coming through the small, dusty pane of glass in the front door that someone at some point must have counted as a window. He pulls out his phone, long in disuse minus the occasional text sent to Cas or a cursory googling of his brother’s name and aliases, just in case, and turns on the flashlight app, setting it to the lowest brightness to at least give himself the illusion of stealth.

He creeps around the mill for the next twenty minutes, head pounding, finding nothing. He swears he keeps seeing a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, but every time he spins around to get a closer look, he finds nothing. As time wears on and the Mark starts pushing him harder, he gets careless. His tread becomes heavier and he doesn’t waste time easing doors shut behind him. He kicks at the dust on the floor and bangs the Blade on the desolate and rusty saws, figuring if he can’t find the djinn, then the djinn will just have to find him. He starts yelling, his voice echoing off the machinery and around the dark room. He bellows taunts into the empty air first to draw the djinn in, and then he keeps shouting just because it offers him even the barest hint of release. He spouts complete nonsense interspersed with long strings of swear words, hitting the Blade off whatever he thinks will cause the most noise. It all reverberates inside his head, deep within the set of his spine, and he outright grins, soaking the vibrations up. When everything else is shaking, his hands feel their steadiest.

At one point, he thinks he feels a hand on him, clasped right below the Mark. He spins around in the dark, but the light only shows an empty room. He looks at his bare forearm where his shirt sleeves are rolled up, and there’s the faintest hint of a fading handprint there.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, sweeping the room once again with his phone light. His throat is aching from all the yelling and his throat is too dry to swallow anymore. One of his knees goes out from under him and he stumbles almost face first into a rusty saw blade, catching himself just in time. When he looks up, he just spots the tails of a familiar tan trench coat whipping around the doorway.

“Cas?” he rasps out, pushing himself off the saw and shambling towards the doorway, which suddenly seems tilted at an odd angle. He holds onto the doorframe for balance as he peers down the hallway in the direction he thought he saw him go, but it’s empty. His flashlight starts to sputter and Dean hits it against his palm until it agrees with him again.

“Cas!” he shouts, but his voice is swallowed up by the hallway. He trails one hand along the wall as he goes, the Blade scraping along behind him. His head is lolling, exhaustion trying to win him over, but he presses on, ignoring the beads of sweat he can feel on his face, under his arms, behind his knees.

He turns a corner and heads down another hallway that looks exactly the same as the last one, but this time there’s no sign of Cas. His flashlight dims substantially, leaving him unable to see more than a couple feet in front of him. He grunts at it, annoyed, but this time no amount of hitting it against his palm does any good. The silence around him is almost suffocating, broken only by his own heavy breathing and heavier tread. Every step he takes stirs up small clouds of dust around his feet, leaving his shoes and the bottom of his jeans a dirty grey. He tries to lick his lips, but his tongue only scrapes along them, dry and uncomfortable.

At the end of the hallway, something lies in a small, sad clump on the floor. Dean approaches woozily, swaying as he takes a knee to get a closer look at it. It’s covered in dust as if it’s been here for a long time, but when Dean shakes it off with a cough, he recognizes it immediately as the blue tie Cas always used to wear.

He rubs a hand across his brow in frustration, pulling himself back to his feet and stuffing the tie into his jacket pocket. Cas wasn’t even wearing this at the diner.

He rounds the next corner hard, expecting nothing but the same as the past couple of hallways, and almost yells out on instinct when he slams straight into someone. He stumbles backwards, breath rattling around in his chest as he shakily lifts the flashlight to illuminate them. Their back is to him, but Dean knows the set of those shoulders and the back of that head. The trench coat is also sort of a giant giveaway, even though Cas wasn’t wearing that back at the diner either.

“Hey,” Dean snaps. Despite the dryness of his throat, it comes out sharp, tinged in fear. “Did you fucking follow me, Cas?” He keeps the beam of light on Cas’ back, but Cas doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even twitch.

Dean clenches his hand around his flashlight, palm cold, and re-adjusts his grip on the Blade with his other hand.

“Cas,” Dean says, “I need to kill this thing, this djinn. The Mark needs-” he swallows hard and it hurts, “ _I_ need to.”

Cas still doesn’t respond. He simply faces the darkness in front of him, and Dean’s stomach clenches. This all feels very very wrong. He strides forward, dropping a hand onto Cas’ shoulder with the intention of yanking him around so they can actually speak face to face, but at the first brush of Dean’s fingers, Cas crumples, falling backwards into Dean’s arms. The extra weight is too much for Dean in his current state, and he takes the two of them down to the floor as gently as possible.

“Cas, what the f-” he starts, but the rest of that sentence dies in his throat as he stares at the First Blade sticking out of Cas’ chest. His stomach rolls, pitches, and he scrambles forwards, examining the wound.

That’s impossible. That’s _impossible_. He was just holding the Blade in his hand. Cas wasn’t even _looking_ at him. There’s no way- there’s no possible way-- he didn’t even _move_ —

The hand he was holding the Blade in is empty.

The first sound Cas makes almost has Dean jumping out of his skin, and it’s an indisputable death rattle. Dean can hear the breath gasping its way out. He knows what it sounds like when someone’s choking on their own blood. He stares down at Cas dying right in front of him, hands frozen in shock.

The Mark, though. The Mark is dancing. The Mark is howling at the moon. The Mark is _screaming_. Laughter punches up out of him and he sobs because he suddenly feels _so good_ , body trembling and shaking and flooded with all the endorphins of a hunt well done. He gathers Cas into his arms, his mind completely blank save for the pleasure of the kill, but he rests Cas’ head in the crook of his elbow and his hands are still shaking. Cas meets his eyes but says nothing, giving into a coughing fit that has him spitting blood onto the front of Dean’s shirt.

Making an aborted attempt to stand, as if somehow he’d be able to navigate this place in the dark with a mortally wounded Cas while he can barely walk himself, he sinks back to the ground. He brushes Cas’ hair away from his face and feels better than he’s felt in weeks, despite the way Cas is looking at him, despite the blank horror that Dean’s body isn’t allowing him to feel right now. He curls over Cas protectively, as if shielding him from malevolent outside foes (that aren’t himself), and promptly falls face first onto the floor, because Cas has suddenly disappeared from under him.

He scrabbles backwards, staring with wide eyes at the place Cas’ body was just lying, and the effects of the Mark slam back into his consciousness like a truck. He gags, getting up on all fours and heaving, but nothing comes. Bile lies bitter on the back of his tongue. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glances again at where Cas was lying, but apart from his own movements, the dust remains undisturbed. Cas was never there.

He reaches into his pocket on a hunch, and where he thought Cas’ tie was he finds only dust, spilling out of his jacket and back onto the floor.

He pulls himself shakily to his feet, only to find the Blade right back where it started, nestled snugly into his palm. The Mark urges him forward, almost a physical thing as he continues to stumble down the hallway, gulping and gasping for air the entire time. Briefly, he touches the back of his hand to his forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that’s accumulated there. His face is burning up as if he has a fever, his head pounding, and his teeth feel strange, too small for his mouth. His jaw aches. 

He’s lurching forward on matchsticks, his steps uneven as if he’s just learned how to walk for the first time. In between steps he doesn’t lift his foot high enough and stumbles forward, the toe of his shoe scraping the ground, and he falls forward into someone’s waiting arms.

“Is this another attempt at a bad pickup line?” A low, amused voice asks from above, and amidst all his other bodily chaos, Dean acutely feels his heart start slamming itself against his ribcage. “Something about falling for me, even though I was the one who did the falling?”

Dean stays like that for a moment, Cas’ arms around him, holding him up, his cheek smushed into Cas’ shoulder. Cas’ hair is tickling his nose. He sighs, bone weary, and shoves himself off and into a standing position. This Cas is wearing a heather grey sweater and dark blue jeans, nicer than either of them could ever afford. This Cas looks like he smiles easier, and more often. He’s smiling now, even though it’s slightly worried at the edges.

“Dean?” he asks, taking a step closer, “Are you okay?”

Dean steps back, slowly shaking his head. He tries to drop the Blade, but he can’t. His grip refuses to loosen.

Cas matches him step for step, moving closer when he moves away. He’s so real it breaks Dean’s heart, but Dean knows his Cas doesn’t move that easily. His Cas doesn’t fit in his own body, because he’s infinite, unknowable, undomesticated. His Cas would never look at him like not, especially not now that he’s wearing black eyes.

“Dean,” he says again, his voice soft and kind, “What’s wrong?” He reaches out, sliding a hand under Dean’s jacket and resting it on his waist. “We have that appointment with the real estate agent in ten minutes, do we need to cancel? I know how much you like that house.”

Somehow, Dean can feel the heat of Cas’ palm through his shirt. He sways on the spot. “It’s a fixer-upper,” Cas says, smiling gently, “But I think we both know at least a little about those.” He leans in, too close, and Dean sags away from the warmth, using everything he’s got to fall against the nearest wall and away from this Cas who talks about them buying a house together, who touches him like he’s does it a thousand times before. He leans his forehead against the wall for a full minute, and when he turns around, Cas is gone. His vision is swimming, and he brings a hand up to rest on his brow. He wants nothing more than to slide down this wall and let the dust claim him, but the Mark is like an electric current running through a hollow tube, keeping him upright despite the lack of a structure strong enough to do so. He’s shoved forward through no will of his own, and every time he blinks he sees either Cas or the djinn he’s hunting and he swings the Blade weakly in front of him, protecting himself if it’s the djinn, reaching out if it’s Cas. In this state, he doubts he could fight off a dust bunny, let alone a fully powered genie.

He stumbles through the sawmill for what feels like days, though logically he knows he’s probably been here less than hour. It feels like his bones are grinding together, and every step he takes he swears sounds like someone scraping something old and cracked and dead across a concrete floor. The ache in his jaw comes back, stronger this time and on the right side. He presses on the outside of his cheek, trying to determine where and what the ache is, but he feels nothing out of the ordinary. _Can demons get root canals?_ he wonders blearily, sliding a finger past his lips to probe the back of his mouth. He ignores the dust and dirt on his finger, trying to parse out where the problem is. As soon as he taps his back molar, a pain shoots through his jaw so sharply his mouth involuntarily closes, teeth shredding the skin around the base of his index finger.

He hisses, yanking his finger out of his mouth and shaking his hand to alleviate the pain, ignoring the small drops of blood that fly everywhere. He’s seriously considering just sticking the Blade in his thigh to draw his brain’s attention to pain somewhere other than his jaw (that’s still pounding as if he’s just been struck by lightning), but before he can properly come up with a plan, he finally finds himself at the end of the maze of hallways, standing in front of what look like doors to the factory floor.

With the pain receding, as if the Mark is rewarding him for a job well done, Dean eases his way through the swinging doors. On the other side is a completely gutted room, just barely lit by the late afternoon light coming in through the grimy windows. The dappling effect the windows have on the sunlight gives the room a strange, wobbly look, as if Dean’s looking at it underwater. There are shadows on the far wall, swaying slightly.

A rope creaks from somewhere, and Dean’s gaze is immediately drawn to the sound. In the center of the room there are three people strung up, bound by their wrists and ankles. They’re pale, hair lank and toes barely brushing the ground. Dean looks back at the shadows on the wall, all three of them. They’re not swaying anymore.

Dean takes a deep breath, and starts forward. The Blade sees flesh-decayed as it is- and rejoices, but Dean revolts, reaching for the knife in his back pocket instead.

 _Not them_ , he tells it.

But he’s strung people up before, hasn’t he? In fact, there was a time when he was better at nothing _than_ stringing people up. They were hoisted onto his rack like hunks of meat at the butcher’s shop, waiting to be carved. He learned how to cut them where it hurt the most, because it lessened his own suffering. The more pain he doled out, the less that came around to him.

He’s in pain now, isn’t he? His body is in revolt. His head is screaming, his heart burning. This is what he learned in the pit. Pain is transferrable. Suffering is a torch to be passed along. Everything hurts in him, and he was so so wrong, because he thought becoming a demon was going to be all about the lessening of pain.

But he’s been a fool, because there’s nothing demons enjoy more than doling out what they got down under. It’s not about alleviating the pain, but passing it on. Pricking people with as many of your own dirty needles as possible.

There’s a distant _clang_ as he drops the knife on the floor, slowly pulling the Blade back out. It seems to repel the dirty sunlight completely. He inches forward, and he knows it won’t be a fight. It’ll be a simple thrust, one and done.

Regardless, he feels the endorphins slowly start to recalibrate in his system, the rush starting to build. This isn’t Cas with a Blade sticking out of his chest, but three people who mean nothing to him, who are probably going to die anyway. It’s like putting an injured animal out of its misery.

His arms are so heavy when he lifts them to cut the ropes, but he starts hacking away eventually. The guy in front of him has his head lolling to the side, his eyes open but unseeing. Dean vaguely wonders what the djinn has him dreaming about, and finds it in himself to hope that it’s something nice, because it’s going to be the last thing he ever sees before Dean slides the Blade through his heart.

A hand falls onto his shoulder, yanking Dean around, ripping a snarl from him. His eyes flash black.

“Ah,” says a contemplative voice quietly, “so that’s why it didn’t work.”   

 Standing in front of him is, undoubtedly, the djinn. He’s got intricate blue tattoos running up his forearms and over his face, and strange metal piercings in his ears. He watches Dean carefully, assessing. “My venom is most potent on humans,” he continues, almost lightly. “Judging by the way it’s affected you, you’re… a demon, I’m guessing?” He peers at Dean, almost lazily sidestepping the swipe of the Blade Dean aims at him. If Dean weren’t so close to collapsing he definitely wouldn’t be telegraphing every single move so far in advance. “What interesting hallucinations for a demon to have.” He smiles slightly. “The only fallen angel I’ve ever seen your kind dream about is Lucifer.” He clucks his tongue, and Dean has to reach out a hand to steady himself, only realizing he’s grabbed the shoulder of the man strung up in front of him. Dean’s fingers dig into flesh and bone, but the grinding beneath his fingers tells him it’s mostly bone.

He tries swiping at the djinn again, but the momentum carries him too far forward and he’s falling again, straight into the arms of the djinn.

There’s a soft chuckle, and then he murmurs into Dean’s hair, “What are we going to do with you, Dean… Dean?”

Dean feels like he’s traveling down a very dark tunnel, not walking, but moving nonetheless. The hair on his arms stands up, and he pushes himself off the torso in front of him, because that was Cas’ voice coming out of the djinn’s mouth. He stumbles backwards, the djinn watching him curiously, like how a hawk watches the mouse it’s about to swoop down on.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he slurs out, losing his balance and stumbling to the side before righting himself. The knife is still on the floor behind him, but his grip on the Blade remains tight.

“I tried to put you to sleep,” the djinn says matter-of-factly. “But failed to take into consideration that you may not be… human.” His eyes rove up and down Dean, the curiosity deepening. “But you’re certainly not like any demon I’ve ever seen.” His gaze is piercing, an electric, unnatural blue that reminds Dean too much of Cas. “That body isn’t a host, is it?” He glances briefly at the Mark on Dean’s arm. “You’re not possessed. It’s just you in there.” He cocks his head, parsing it out. “ _You’re_ the demon.”

“You got a problem with that?” Dean snaps as the room wavers in front of him.

The djinn shakes his head.

“Not at all. I’m just curious as to why a demon is coming after a djinn. As far as I’m aware, there’s no bad blood between our species.”

 Dean shakes his head slowly. “Oh, pal,” he says, trying to concentrate. “I’m coming after you because I’m going to kill you.”

The djinn watches him, unimpressed.

“If I were to take your threat seriously, that would indeed inspire some hostile relations between the two of us,” he admits. He reaches up to tweak on of his many earrings. “In your current state though, I can hardly imagine-” the rest of his words are cut off by a choking sound, and his hands curl weakly around the First Blade that’s now protruding from his throat, clawing uselessly at it. Dean’s fingers are curling and uncurling at his sides, the adrenaline surging through him again as it feels like his head breaking water after spending an eternity beneath it. He’s never been the best knife thrower, but it’s so much easier when the blade being thrown wants to embed itself in living flesh.

Blood is pouring down the djinn’s arms as he drops to his knees, his blue tattoos now covered in a dark, angry red. Dean walks forward, shedding the pain like a snake sheds its skin as the thrill of the kill coats his insides. This is the first thing he’s killed since Texas, and he can finally breathe again. This is no weakness like there was with Cas at the diner. No goodwill like letting that shop worker in Oklahoma City live. This isn’t pity like when he let those two hunters go.

Dean wraps his hand around the Blade again, the cords of muscle in his arm straining red as the Mark curls down and around his forearm, circling his wrist and his hand, enveloping his palm and fingers as he sticks a foot on the djinn’s chest and uses it as leverage to yank the Blade from his throat with a crack that sounds like a gunshot. Dean’s fairly sure that was a combination of the trachea and spine severing.

The djinn falls back onto the dusty floor, twitching. Dean allows himself a couple seconds to watch the life flow out of him, and then he’s on him, driving the Blade into him over and over and over and over. 

This is no dead body in Texas. The djinn is hard to kill without that pig-sticker dipped in lamb’s blood, and the harder he is to kill, the more Dean gets out of it. The more Dean stabs, the better he feels. The more pain he doles out, the less he has to endure. Alastair told him so, all those years ago. The fault lies with Dean for waiting so long to take his advice.   

Ecstasy shudders through him, white hot like a lightning strike. The djinn gurgles beneath him, his tattoos writhing on his skin in protest. He laughs as he stabs it in the throat, something hysterical and borderline unhinged as his arms become sticky with blood, his hands drenched. He sees things he knows aren’t there, like blue eyes that are similar in color but not in intent to the djinn, and how close they were to his own before he died. He feels a hand cup his face and tears welling up in his eyes, something in his throat.

He stabs through them, until he can’t.

His blows slow, slower, stop. The gore drips from the Blade with the sickly _plop_ of water from a leaky faucet. Suddenly, his breathing is deafening. It echoes loudly in the room. His shoulders heave. With a shuddering moan, he lolls off the djinn, shoving him onto his front so he doesn’t have to look at the carnage. The quiet, slick splats of insides hitting the dusty floor as they fall out of the djinn’s torso make Dean close his eyes.

He sits very still for a moment, frozen. Then, whip-like, he hurls the Blade as far as he can from the awkward position he’s in, and doesn’t even bother to listen as it clatters to the floor somewhere in the corner of the room. Shakily, he puts his head in his hands and breathes out. His fingers twitch.

It’s not about the pleasure from the kill. Even when he was human, Dean was one of those fucked up people who got his jollies slicing heads off vamps. Really, he was never so different than those two assholes at the bar. Eager to get his hands dirty. Nothing more than an arm that ends in a hand that extends into fingers that know how to wrap around the hilt of a blade. It’s not about that, because Dean has been that, will always be that. Will never be a person.

It’s about the need. The inherent, prodding, inevitable, _essential_ desire to kill, to take life. Already a creature of need as a human, he’s somehow been reduced even further. This isn’t about wanting his brother or Cas or his mom or, fuck, some days, he’d even settle for his dad. This is a husk, the hollow of a shadow of a soul, charred and twisted. What he became in hell, on Alastair’s rack. What he became _after_ that. 

Dean is suddenly convinced he’s still in hell and everything that’s happened since then has been one long hallucination cooked up by his own sick brain. Cas never rescued him. Cas doesn’t even _exist_. He never reunited with Sam or Bobby, never watched his own baby brother fall into a hole in the ground or spent a year trying to pretend he was something he wasn’t in Cicero. There was no purgatory, no soul-grab, no heavenly war. No leviathans, no purgatory, no angels falling. It’s all been silhouettes in the fire, reflections of the flames in the knives Dean likes to use on his victims. There’s the pit, the stink of sulphur and blood in his mouth , and there’s his rack. There’s his victim, and Alastair, and his hand holding the Blade.

Alastair told him, time and time again, whispered into his ear, over and over, _this is all you are, Dean._ And all Dean saw was his hand wrapped around the hilt of a knife, and all Dean felt was the pain aching to leave his own body and flow into another, and all he knew, after all this time- longer than his own life, by then- was that this was all he’d ever be.

The apocalypse never came to pass, but he ended up here after all. Not in a garden with the devil in a white suit, but his own inevitable conclusion. The detour was long but the destination was still the same, and there are no gardens waiting for him here.

A wave of nausea washes over him, and something clutches at his throat. He coughs, getting up onto his knees, one palm flat to the cold concrete of the warehouse floor.  He hacks, digging fingers in his mouth to try and pull whatever it is out, and the pain in his jaw blinds him as he stuffs his index finger down his throat, succeeding in nothing but heaving loudly, retching noises echoing around the room. It’s dull and dry and harsh, but he manages to spit it out, breathing heavily as the protrusion in his throat clears.

He stares at the dandelion on the ground. The dandelion he just coughed up. He wonders if it was supposed to be part of the non-existent dream the djinn was going to send him into. Back in his hand, the Blade warms. Reminds him that in the grand scheme of things, he is a weed. Here to disrupt. Here to upset. An eyesore. A blight.

He crushes the yellow weed with the hilt of the Blade, watches in grim satisfaction as it smears across the concrete, leaving a wet trail behind it.

Technically, he’s sated. The Mark has been fed. He can feel the headache ebbing, the dry mouth fading. He feels good, but not the kind that emanates from the inside out. This is a selfish good, a surface good, treating the symptoms but not the underlying condition.

But they taste so good, these empty calories. Cheap and easy to swallow. It’s the heartier meals he’s afraid of, the ones that take time and care and preparation, but still ruin so easily. The ones that require deft, clever hands, but Dean’s hands are neither deft nor clever, merely clumsy and calloused.

He staggers to his feet, stumbles slightly and puts a hand to his head as the blood flow reorients itself. He breathes in deeply, reaching down carefully to pull his knife (now covered in dry lamb’s blood instead of wet) out of his shoe, and moves towards the three djinn victims, his intentions purely to cut them free.

At least, that _was_ the intention. He blinks, and suddenly he’s not in an abandoned sawmill anymore. He blinks, and he’s holding the First Blade in his hand. He blinks, and the people in front of him, strung up and pliant, are not the djinn’s victims, but his own. On his rack. He swallows heavily, blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision, like windshield wipers in a rainstorm. But the onslaught is fast and thick, the storm rolling in before Dean has a chance to take cover. It rolls over him, swallows him up.

He blinks, and he’s back in hell once more. Like he never left.

All he did in hell was maim, and hurt, and eviscerate. He cut and tore and eviscerated to avoid _being_ cut and torn and eviscerated. He liked it because if he didn’t, he’d be the next one strung up. He revelled in it because it was either revelling or acknowledging that his hands were the ones doing the deed.

Alastair made it easy for him, told him he was a killer anyway. Every rotten thing he had ever put in the ground was another life snuffed out, another tally on the wall. And hey, these people were already dead. Dean was just punishing the bad ones, after all, even though they didn’t look any different than the good ones with tears pouring down their cheeks and blood pouring out of their mouths.

Dean knows he’s a killer, has always been a killer. His own house burned down around him as a child, taking his mother with it. His father taught him to kill for over two decades, then tasked him with killing his own brother. Then he up and died as well. How many times has Sam died? Cas? He’s been the common denominator every time.

Hell didn’t make him a killer. It only made him a better one.  

 _You don’t leave meat just hanging on a hook_ , Alastair used to say. _You’re a butcher, an artist. So carve._

He almost does. The Mark is there, and probably pumping away at a mile a second, but it’s muted beneath all the hell noise. There aren’t many things that can turn Dean’s attention away from the Mark so completely, but this is one of them. Either way, it’s getting fed again today. It can hardly complain. He thinks he’ll go for the man on the left first. He’s got red hair and a scruffy, patchy beard, his skin milky white. He’s further along in the dying process than the other two, and by starting with him first, Dean can be sure to get as many licks in as possible before he succumbs to the djinn’s poison.

His throat is dusty and dry, but his grip on the Blade is sweaty. He thought he had thrown it as far away from himself as possible, but here it is, a trusted friend returned.

He raises the Blade, poised to strike the first blow, and then—

A quiet voice carries across the dust. Cas, saying his name.

Dean doesn’t move, but he doesn’t lower his arm.

“Dean,” Cas says again. He steps forward, little clouds of dust stirring up to his ankles.

“You’re not real,” Dean says. His voice shakes a little. “You weren’t there.”

Cas stops in front of him, blocking his view. He looks solid, but Dean knows better. He’s watched Cas turn to dust too many times today. Cas watches him somberly.

“I’m real, Dean. We spoke a little under two hours ago. At the diner.”

“You weren’t _there_ ,” Dean snaps, arm trembling. Unbidden, he feels his eyes well up. Demons crying. He never thought he’d live to see the day.

“Where do you think you are, Dean?” Cas asks, and why does he keep saying Dean’s name? “Right now, where do you think you are?”

Dean blinks, but the flames continue to lick at him. His victims, strung up on racks in front of him. They need to be attended to.

“Dean,” Cas says slowly, methodically. Like how one speaks to a spooked animal. “Dean, you’ve been poisoned by the djinn. Djinn poison isn’t meant for demons, and these are the side effects.”

Dean readjusts his grip on the Blade, eyes still trained on the lifeless bodies in front of him. He licks his lips.

“You’re not in hell,” Cas says, still speaking in that same, calm voice. “You’re not in hell because I pulled you out. I saved you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head slowly, and the flames at his side shiver a bit. He closes his eyes, as if in pain.

“You didn’t,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. “No one saved me because I belong there.” He swallows. “ _Here_. I belong here.” The dust clings to him, coating him. He remembers reading somewhere that dust is mostly comprised of dead human skin cells that have been shed, and he’s always known that he’s nothing but the detritus people leave behind, the extra bits they never even realized they lost, the ones they don’t miss. It only makes sense the dust would claim him once more, once the fire burned him out. He laughs, but it’s a pitiful thing. “We’re all dust in the wind.”

Cas’ brow creases momentarily, and he’s obviously confused. But after a moment, his face clears and he steps closer, too close. Always too close.

“You’re not in hell,” Cas repeats. His voice is still quiet but there’s a commanding tone to it now, a ring of authority Dean hasn’t heard in a long time rearing its head. “And you most certainly don’t belong there.”

He puts a light but firm hand on Dean’s shoulder, and like a butterfly landing on the top of a house of cards, Dean crumples. Cas stumbles a bit under the sudden extra weight but finds his footing quickly enough as he gently brings Dean down to the floor with him, Dean folded against his side.

“I am and I do,” Dean says to Cas’ shoulder, his mouth going numb, his words slurring, “I’m a demon, and demons come from hell.” He’s dizzy, tired, and he thinks this must be the poison finally getting to him. “Demons go to hell.”

Cas has a firm grip on him, unwilling to let go.

“You’re going to be okay, Dean,” he vows lowly.

Dean blinks up at him, flicking his eyes to black lazily. He’s exhausted.

“I’m bad, Cas,” he drawls, his smile wan. “Real bad.”

Cas’ expression is drawn tight with worry. “You’re not,” he says, and he shifts his grip on Dean to something more reverent. He clings to Dean’s sleeve with white knuckles. “You never could be. You never will be.”

Dean breathes out slowly. He’s not dying, he knows it. But the poison will pull him under for a while. This is like the warehouse all those weeks ago, except it’s not. He’s gone bad, like milk left in the fridge too long. Cas will sniff it out eventually, how spoiled he really is.

Cas stares at him, as if suddenly realizing something.

“You said my name,” he marvels.

“I did, didn’t I?”                 

“You’re not in hell, Dean.”

Dean tries to lick his lips. Another wave of dizziness passes through him.

“Why’d you tell me to kill you?” he mumbles woozily. “I don’t want to kill you.”

Cas goes still above him. Dean watches the pull of his throat as he swallows.

“A brief lapse in judgment,” he finally says, not meeting Dean’s eyes as he digs in his pocket for his cell phone. Dean watches as Cas calls an ambulance, murmuring quietly into the receiver. When he hangs up, he shifts to start standing up, trying to pull Dean with him.

“We need to leave,” he says, back to business. “The authorities will be here soon.”

Dean glances at the people strung up behind them. He opens his mouth as if to argue, but Cas shuts him up with a glance.

“There’s nothing we can do for them. And my priority at the moment is you.” He hefts Dean up, pulling one of his arms over his shoulders and wrapping a hand around Dean’s waist. Dean leans into it as they hobble towards the door.

“This ain’t gonna last,” he mumbles. “Mark’s down but not out.”

Cas stiffens. “I’m aware of that.”

“Just dump me on the side of the road, Cas. Roll me off a cliff or into a river while you’ve got the chance.”

“In all possible universes I can assure you I would never do any of those things.”

Dean shakes his head, drugged and distressed.

“I’m gonna try and kill you. I already did once. But it was fake. You weren’t real. You were fake.”

Cas’ mouth twists.

“I know the feeling,” he says cryptically.

They make it another twenty steps through the decrepit building when Dean’s legs give out from under him. He crumples to the floor, covered in dust.

“Just let me go,” he begs. He’s not asking for his own sake, but for Cas’. Even though he knows the worst of the poison hasn’t even passed yet, he can feel the Mark rolling back in like summer storm clouds, fast and dark. Today has been a relapse. He fell back on old, human habits and it’s catching up to him. He needs to remember what he is. Most importantly, he needs to remember what he _isn’t_. He isn’t good for anyone. He isn’t good for himself. He sure as hell isn’t good for Cas. Not in any way, shape, or form.

The storm rolls in, heavy and unforgiving.

***

Cas is weak, but he’s not that weak. Once Dean finally succumbs to the poison, Cas has to be rougher than he’d like, thanks to the both the external ticking clock of the authorities arriving, and the internal one of the poison working its way out of Dean’s system. The solution to both of these problems is to get somewhere secure, and Cas isn’t interested in wasting time, he’s interested in results.

He still feels like he’s dragging three feet behind himself, but at the same time, he feels reinvigorated. There’s hope. That was Dean back there on that factory floor, poisoned and terrified and hallucinating, but it was him. He’s fighting it. Cas knows what it’s like to get swept along in tides stronger than himself, and the Mark of Cain is nothing if not a torrent. But the longer Dean fights, the wider Cas’ window is to find a solution. If he loses faith in Dean’s ability to fight the Mark’s influence, it’s going to be almost impossible to pull him back.

So whether he truly believes it or not, he tells himself that Dean is still fighting. That what happened outside that diner wasn’t some kind of ploy, that the djinn poison isn’t just a fluke. A long time ago, he pledged his loyalty, his faith, his allegiance to Dean Winchester. Not quite as long ago, he pledged himself. So long as Dean would have him, Cas would be there. No matter the outcome to this new obstacle, Cas doubts that loyalty will shift, even if he wanted it to. The thing about angels (or former angels) is that once they find a cause, they become immovable objects. Being indoctrinated since the moment of creation tends to have that effect on a species. Whenever Cas imagines the rest of his existence as the angel on Dean’s shoulder, the monkey on his back, he is resigned. Before the Mark took hold, however, he had, perhaps foolishly, imagined a future at Dean’s side.

And, perhaps more foolishly still, he’s not ready to let that future wisp away like so much smoke just yet.

With that thought in mind, he allows the strategist in him to take over, which means he _doesn’t_ allow himself to shy away when he slaps Dean hard across the face.  

“I need you to stay with me, Dean,” Cas says clearly, the slap ringing in his ears. “I need you to walk, okay? You don’t even need to open your eyes.”

Dean stays limp, and Cas knows he can get Dean some distance on his own, but not far enough. He tries summoning any last vestiges of his grace to aid him, but there’s hardly a flutter in his fingertips. He’s on his own, and Dean is dead weight as he is.

Cas steels himself, and slaps Dean again, harder. There’s a red splotch on his cheek now, and Cas thinks briefly about the other times in their relationship he’s laid a hand on Dean. In the alley, in Lucifer’s crypt. He shakes the thoughts away, because now is not the time.

Though he does let out a painful breath of relief when Dean is roused enough to at least start stumbling forward through the maze of hallways ahead of them. He says nothing and his eyes remain closed, but he moves forward and that’s all Cas needs right now.

The vague sound of the storm brewing outside-dormant since the diner, but now seemingly making a comeback- makes the building groan around them while dust and debris falls from the ceiling. There’s the distant sound of rain lashing against the side of the building and the brief, ghostly howls of the wind. Once they’re about halfway through the mill, Cas hears the vague sound of sirens in the distance.

“Dean, c’mon,” Cas urges, because Dean has started to slow again, his steps growing more sluggish with each hallway passed. His feet drag against the ground. He says something garbled under his breath, but Cas doesn’t catch it.

“Not far now,” Cas assures him, even though he’s almost positive Dean can’t hear him. “We’re almost there, Dean, I promise.”

Dean makes the sound again, and Cas understands.

“Sam,” Dean mumbles. He clutches at Cas.

“Yes,” is all Cas says, because he doesn’t know if Dean has mistaken him for Sam, or if he’s asking where he is. Either way, hopefully it keeps him moving.

Dean does, in fact, take another step. He mumbles again.

“Almost there,” Cas repeats, arm firm around Dean’s waist. His other hand is tightly clutching at Dean’s wrist where his arm is thrown over his shoulder. The hallways all pass in blurs of darkness and dust, but Dean keeps moving and keeps mumbling. Finally, when they’re just about at the front door and the sound of the storm and the sirens has reached a crescendo, Cas realizes what Dean’s been saying and his chest clenches.

“Cas,” Dean mumbles one more time, and despite not having a moment to spare, Cas spares one anyway. Standing just behind the door, with the wind and the rain screaming to come in and tear the place down, Cas presses his lips to Dean’s sweaty forehead, then whispers something to him that gets drowned out by the cacophony outside.

When he’s done, he pulls away and kicks open the front door just as the ambulance lights appear around the corner, red flashing hard against the now pitch black sky. Not far behind, the red and blue lights of the police follow, sirens competing with the thunder that rumbles angrily just above their heads.

Cas practically drags Dean behind a large pile of logs, the ground mostly mud by now. He tries to blink away the torrential rainwater that’s clinging to his eyelashes, but it’s still almost impossible to see. Even Dean, right in front of him, is little more than a blur. Despite the chill of the rain, his skin burns hot against Cas’ own.

The sirens cut off abruptly as the cars screech to a stop in the mud, paramedic and police alike heading into the building. They have to park around Dean’s car, stopped almost dead center on the road, driver’s side door open and interior light still on, a ghostly glow in the dark. Cas stays out of sight, crouching behind the wood and keeping a firm grip on Dean. He’s still out of it, but Cas isn’t taking any chances.

Once the majority of the officers have headed into the building, Cas circles around the cluster of cars and ambulances, giving them a wide berth. Dean is heavy against him, sopping wet and close enough to it that he may as well be unconscious, though at least his feet are willing hold at least some of his own weight, stepping forward at Cas’ insistence.

Cas parked the Continental on a service road a little ways away, and he and Dean make their slow, shuffling way back to it. By the time they arrive, Cas is soaked to the bone and freezing, feeling horribly guilty for how he leans into the warmth of Dean’s feverish skin, brought on the djinn’s poison. He helps Dean into the passenger seat, reaching across him to grab his seat belt and buckle him in. Just as he’s pulling away, he feels a warm palm grab his forearm, and when he looks up, Dean’s staring at him with wide, glassy eyes.   

Cas feels his own eyes widen in response, and he says, “Dean, what-” but cuts himself off because he doesn’t know what he was going to ask. The wind is whipping rain drops into the car around them, but Cas has suddenly forgotten about the chill that’s seized his bones. Dean doesn’t say anything in response to his cut off question, just stares at him. Cas can’t read the emotion there, but his chest aches regardless. Dean’s hand tightens on his arm, not in pain or urgency, but as if he’s making sure this is all real, that Cas is here and solid beneath him.

Because he’s weak, Cas allows it. He takes more time he doesn’t have to be greedy, to press his palms to Dean’s cheeks because he’s always afraid it’s  going to be the last time. He gives himself this moment, and then Dean’s head lolls back and his hand drops, and the moment falls away. Cas shuts Dean’s door, then circles around the front of the car to slide into his own side, wiping rainwater out of his face.

Beside him, Dean sleeps.


	8. Chapter 8

Cas stops at the first motel he comes across, a place nestled in the trees about half an hour away from the sawmill. It’s rundown, like most Winchester motels of choice, but out of the way and cheap, also like most Winchester motels of choice. Its sputtering neon sign had cried out to Cas like a beacon in the night, and he had pulled in gladly. The storm has mostly blown itself out by now, but the sky is still dark and the occasional raindrop still falls. Dean hasn’t stirred since that strange moment back on the service road, but Cas can’t pretend he hasn’t heard Dean muttering his name. At this point, he doesn’t know if Dean is dreaming about killing him or… something else.

He refuses to leave Dean alone for even a moment, so he ends up dragging him into the motel’s office, once again an arm around Dean’s waist and the other holding him steady across the shoulders. The office is unsurprisingly grimy, décor probably older than the clerk sitting behind the desk. Cas glances at the once-beige couch, now a strange orange-y brown color, and almost smiles when he imagines what Dean’s reaction would be to it if he were awake.

The clerk, a greasy, gaunt man, eyes them warily, and Cas figures this looks at least a little incriminating. He tries to smile, because the last thing he needs is the authorities brought to this place as well.

“Hello,” he says, and it’s amazing how hard it is to dredge up a  smile. He inclines his head towards Dean. “My friend has had a little too much to drink, and I was hoping for a room.”

The clerk looks Dean up and down, assessing.

“We don’t want any trouble,” he says pointedly.

“I understand,” Cas assures him, “He just needs a place to sleep it off.”

The clerk drums his fingers on the counter for a moment, then reaches behind him to grab a key with a sigh.

“Room 12,” he says, dropping the key onto the counter instead of into Cas’ waiting hand. He pulls a form from behind the desk, slapping it on the surface. “Licence plate and credit card here.”

Cas signs everything with fake information, nods in thanks, and steers Dean to room 12. Once they get inside, he immediately locks the door behind them, and lays Dean out on the bed. After watching him warily for a moment, Cas gets to work. He grabs an assortment of things from the Continental’s trunk, and his duffel bag from the back seat, keeping a furtive eye on the parking lot as he does so. Once he’s sure no one is watching, and once he’s scanned the rooms nearest them for nosy guests watching through the stained curtains, he returns to the room, heart in his throat until he’s satisfied that Dean is in exactly the same position he left him in.

Cas paints the devil’s trap on the floor in the space between the beds and the old dresser where the television sits, then plunks the desk chair down in the middle. He soaks ropes in holy water and sets them out to dry while he wrestles Dean into the chair, content to tie him down only when the ropes have dried. Wet, they would have caused pain. Dry will only provide discomfort, at least, but will weaken him.

Once everything is prepared, the only thing Cas can do is wait for Dean to wake up. He paces anxiously at first, but quickly finds his irritation with the small space growing. Instead, he sits on one of the beds, trying to stare at anything other than what’s in front of him. He counts the spots on the ceiling three times, just to make sure he gets the number right. He plucks stray threads from the ugly, puce colored bedspread. He turns the television on mute and watches twenty minutes of a rerun of an old baseball game, half obscured by static.

Eventually, he gives up. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, and grimaces when he realizes how the strands have all stuck together, days of debris and grease and dust caught there. He’s terrified to look in the mirror, hasn’t seen his own reflection in days. His face is past the point of stubbly now, well on its way to a full-fledged beard.

With another wary glance at Dean, Cas walks into the bathroom and starts the shower, turning it up to almost the hottest setting. As if the sudden sound of water hitting the tile is going to wake him up, Cas pokes his head back out the bathroom door, but Dean is exactly where he left him. He grabs an extra set of clothes from his duffel where it sits on one of the beds, and leaves the door only slightly ajar behind him. If Dean wakes up in a panic he wants to be able to hear and respond to it immediately.

He shucks out of his clothes, grimacing at how stiff and unyielding they’ve become. His grace has almost completely quit self-regulating at this point, and Cas is too tired by now to call himself anything but human. The only grace he has left is mere embers, and it isn’t even his. He’s hard pressed to even call what he was with the stolen grace an angel. A thief, a liar, a traitor, yes. Hardly an angel. Barely a human.

He steps into the shower, hissing at first against the heat, but quickly relaxing into it. This shower isn’t nearly as good as the ones at the bunker, but it’s hot and it’s water, and that’s pretty much all he’s asking for. He can feel the caked on sweat and dirt as the water sloughs it all off his body, his torso turning pink under the onslaught of heat and pressure.

He thinks about the Blade, where it’s hidden away in whatever corner of the sawmill Dean had left it in. He considers going back for it at some point, since he’s positive it’d be safer with him than with Dean, but it’s also possible the police have picked it up by now, will have it stored within a secure evidence locker within a couple hours. Not that a secure evidence locker is impenetrable, but it could at least serve as a temporary deterrent.

Besides, if things go… badly, with Dean, maybe it would be better that Cas doesn’t know the exact location of the Blade. That way, he couldn’t give it up, even unintentionally. The thought isn’t a nice one, but it is a practical one, and Cas can feel the water droplets bounce off his grimace. This Dean is unpredictable, held under a spell Cas has no idea how to break.

His train of thought is interrupted when he hears a creak too loud to be the settling of the motel, and almost falls flat on his face as he stumbles out of the shower, catching his foot on the curtain as he goes. He stumbles into fresh jeans and towels soap out of his eyes in about fifteen seconds, practically tumbling through the bathroom door with his heart in his throat as he pictures walking back into an empty motel room.

Dean, still tired to the chair but now very awake, stares at him. Cas’ wet hair is furiously dripping in his eyes and down the back of his neck, and he takes a second to wipe the excess water away, as if Dean is nothing more than a blur on a windshield.

After a moment of blankness, as if he’s contemplating what emotional switch to pull, Dean’s eyes very pointedly dip towards Cas’ naked torso and then back up to his face, a lascivious grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Well,” he says expectantly, “Hi.”

Cas immediately ducks back into the bathroom, giving himself a second he already should have taken to prepare himself. He aggressively towels his hair dry and slips into another of Dean’s old plaid shirts. This one is blue and soft, thinned out by the amount of times it’s been through the wash. Even after all this time, the familiarity of the wardrobe gives him comfort, makes him feel close to a friend he feels like he hasn’t seen in a very long time.

Said friend, of course, is sitting right outside this bathroom.

When he walks back out into the main part of the room, Dean is waiting, expectant but patient. His gaze flicks down to Cas’ torso again, quicker this time. He grins.

“Always liked that shirt,” he says fondly, “But I gotta admit, looks better on you.”

Cas doesn’t let his expression flicker. He crosses his arms and leans against the jut of bare wall next to the bathroom door. Obviously Dean is going to try to pretend like everything he said back there- at the diner, at the sawmill- was some kind of fluke.

“I’m sorry for what happened back at the sawmill,” he says.

Dean raises his eyebrows, amused. “What, the pow right in kisser?” he asks, angling the cheek Cas had slapped towards him. There’s still a vague reddish tinge to the skin there. “Hey, man. Tit for tat. I threw you down a hallway that one time, remember?” He shrugs as much as his binds will allow. “My jaw does hurt though, so thanks for that.”

Cas swallows, but soldiers on. “Consider this apology a rain check, then,” he says. “I imagine it’ll land much more effectively after you’re cured.”

Dean smiles, feral, and Cas can see blood between his teeth.

“Press nine to save messages in archive,” he says robotically, imitating the voice from their answering machine at the bunker. “Message will be saved for—fourteen days.”

“You were going to kill those people,” Cas says harshly. “If the djinn’s venom hadn’t still been working its way through you, weakening you, you would have killed them. _Innocent people_ , Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re such a drama queen. Sheesh.”

“Drop the act, Dean!” Cas snaps before he can think better of it, taking angry steps forward. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Dean searches his face for a long moment, then shrugs as much as he can, the gesture almost humble. It drives Cas mad. “Ain’t no act, sunshine,” Dean assures him with a wink.

Cas sighs heavily, going still for a moment. Then, in a very human display of frustration, he turns and slams a palm against the wall, feeling the shock of the impact travel all the way up his arm. For a moment, he leans his forehead there and just breathes. Tries to forget Dean is even in the room with him. He slams the wall again, just because he wants to feel the impact.

“Thought you were done deciding what’s best for me,” Dean says from behind him, sneer in his voice. Cas can hear the ropes around his wrists and ankles creak pointedly.

“I lied,” Cas tells the wall flatly.

“Because you love me,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Because you’re _in_ love with me,” he continues, like he’s putting together a puzzle.

Cas doesn’t answer.

“You’re in love with _him_ ,” Dean corrects himself. “Human me.”

Cas sighs and turns around, crossing his arms.

“There is no demon possessing you,” he says tiredly. “There is no other entity inhabiting your body. The Mark is a sickness. A curse. You are still one body, one mind, one soul. How I feel for you doesn’t change based on what state you’re in.”

“Aw, Cas. That was almost romantic.”

“And that was definitely glib,” Cas spars, “Unsurprisingly.”

“I’m hurting your feelings, huh?” Dean pouts, playing it up.

“You’re trying my patience.”

“Guess some things never change,” Dean says, and his sudden smile is so genuine that Cas has to look away, unconvinced he’s strong enough to avoid falling under this particular spell. His chest pulls hard towards that chair, towards the body sitting in it, and he visibly struggles not to comply. Dean’s eyes are so green, his freckles so prominent. It makes him look young, innocent, and Cas knows he’s doing it on purpose, knows he’s trying to foster some kind of bond between them, stoke the embers of the affection Dean knows Cas holds for him no matter what.

Cas is an excellent interrogator, and a better strategist, but Dean Winchester can unravel him with a wink, with a smile. He’s never thought too deeply about what he wouldn’t do for Dean, because deep down, he’s terrified that list has exactly zero items on it.

It’s certainly not the first time the rules haven’t applied to Dean.

Cas wonders just how much Dean knows. Just how much he’s come to understand about his standing in Cas’ eye. That Cas would burn the world for him, the entire universe.

Before the Mark, Dean would never even entertain the thought, and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t take advantage of it. But Dean in the grips of the Mark, a Dean with an easier smile and a quicker temper and a thirst determined to go unsated, that’s the Dean he has to draw lines for.

 _Should_ draw lines for.

He thinks about the security camera footage from Oklahoma City Charlie showed him, how he shrugged it off, made excuses for Dean. Exalted him, even. The constant push pull inside him that’s always asking if he’s doing this for Dean’s benefit or his own. The fervor that pumps through him when Dean is near, black eyes or not. The ache in his chest when there’s no one whistling in the kitchen as they make breakfast, when there are no lazy notes of records drifting out of bedrooms late at night when uncomfortable dreams make it too difficult to sleep. A noticeable gap without gentle, calloused hands that clap shoulders and strip guns and pat knees when the occasion calls for. A bleeding, beaten, broken heart worn on a sleeve because even after everything it’s been put through, it’s still afraid of the solitude of the darkness.

Cas looks at Dean strapped to that chair, and of course it’s Dean. Dean with black eyes, Dean flaying souls in hell, Dean crying in a hospital bed as he tells Cas he’s not strong enough. It’s all the same. Dean is Dean, and Cas loves him like he’s never known anything else. Loves him despite. Loves him regardless. Loves him in spite of.

“It would seem so,” Cas answers, and he can’t even begin to regret it. He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms against his chest so he can hopefully quell the next urge to punch a wall.

As if on cue, there’s a loud knock on the door, and then a shout of “Manager!” from the other side. Cas and Dean share a loaded glance, and Cas knows they both know there are two ways to handle this situation: one, Dean could bring this whole thing down and probably get Cas dragged away by the police for good measure if he decides he wants to shout for help. Two, Dean could say nothing, the manager goes away, and he stays strapped to that chair for the foreseeable future.

Dean would probably tell him there’s no reason for him to go with the second one, so Cas doesn’t ask. Instead, he just waits. Watches Dean.

Dean says nothing.

The manager knocks again, and Cas casts one last glance at Dean before going to stand behind the door.

“What?” he says, loud enough it can be heard through the wood.

“Got a complaint from next door,” the manager says. “Keep it down.”

“Sorry,” Cas says, “I… tripped. In the shower.”

There’s a deciding silence from the other side of the door, and then, seemingly because he’s not interested in a potential yelling match, the manager huffs and repeats, “Well just keep it down,” before Cas can hear his footsteps disappearing as he walks away.

He stares at the door for a moment, a strange foreboding coming over him. When he turns around, Dean is smirking at him.

“We woke the neighbors, honey.”

“You didn’t,” Cas says coolly, walking back to his original position at the desk. He crosses his arms again. “You didn’t even make a sound.”

There’s a brief flicker of genuine emotion across Dean’s face, but he quickly masks it.

“I’m just a real quiet guy,” he says mockingly, “Contemplative and the like.”

“Or there’s a part of you, however small that may be, that wanted to stay here. That wants to be cured.”

“Thanks, Freud.”

“I mean it, Dean.”

Dean pulls at the ropes on his wrists, to no avail. His fingers clench and unclench, looking for the hilt of the Blade to wrap themselves around.

“Where is it,” he says lowly, sarcasm suddenly gone from his voice, leaving only a stark chill.

“I genuinely don’t know,” Cas says.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

Dean glares at him, and Cas knows he’s going to rub his wrists raw if he keeps pulling at the ropes like that.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he sighs, dutifully ducking into the bathroom to grab the complimentary body lotion that smells like cardboard.

“The point of the Blade is so _I_ can hurt _other_ people,” Dean says, though it sounds more like he’s going for flippancy over reality in typical Dean fashion.

“I’m not talking about the Blade,” Cas says as he walks back out of the bathroom, bottle of lotion in hand. He grabs the back of Dean’s chair, spinning it in place so that it’s facing the corner of one of the beds. Cas sinks down onto it, squeezing a small amount into his palm while Dean eyes him warily.

“Hey, I know you’re into me and all, but I’d appreciate if you told me where those fingers were going before they go there.”

Cas suddenly feels bone weary, his limbs heavy and the need for sleep hovering over him, a storm that’s blown in, unprecedented, off the water. He rubs the lotion between his palms before carefully loosening the ropes on Dean’s left hand just enough that he can slide both his hands through, massaging the lotion into Dean’s raw wrists. Dean makes a surprised noise and tries to pull away, but has no leverage from the angle he’s sitting at. So instead he settles for a flat, “Cas, what the hell are you doing.”

Cas continues to work the lotion into Dean’s skin, feeling the delicate shift of bone beneath his touch. Dean’s skin is warm beneath his, still flushed from the fever of the poison, still heated by the wrath of the Mark. He wants to press his lips to the angry red lines that have appeared thanks to the ropes put there by himself, wants to ease the pain and promise himself that this is the last time he’s ever going to hurt Dean, even though he knows it’s a lie. Sometimes he’s not sure he and Dean will ever stop hurting each other, no matter how much they both wish for the contrary.

“I can’t stop you from hurting yourself,” he confesses to Dean’s palms, “But I can do my best to ease the subsequent effects, especially when done by my own hand.”

“Like in the crypt.”

Cas nods curtly. “Yes.”

Dean stares at him; Cas can feel Dean’s breath fluttering against his hair while he focuses on his wrist.

“I’ve been beaten on my whole life, y’know,” Dean says, voice casual. “Ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, vampires, wendigos, even my dad a couple times. You name it, I’ve probably been choked out or thrown into a wall by it.” He shrugs. “You makin’ the list ain’t anything to be ashamed of.”

Cas’ hands on Dean’s still, and though he’s not surprised by the wave of righteous anger on Dean’s behalf that sweeps through him, he’s still unprepared to deal with the aftermath, where he jumps off the bed, standing so still that even Dean seems wary. His thoughts slow, churning sluggishly, and then speed up again so quickly they crystalize into a single, forever unalterable point in space and time in which what he feels for Dean has been immortalized, a carved out nook in infinity that trembles under the weight of which it receives.

“You deserve so much better than this, Dean,” Cas says on a sigh, whole body slumping back onto the bed, “Better than me, better than the lot you were given in this life.” He drops his head into his hand, staring at the threadbare carpet between his knees. Things fall silent between them for a moment, and Cas doesn’t want to look at Dean, afraid of what he’ll see. It’s not black eyes and a devil’s grin he’s worried about, but betrayal, hatred, disgust. Rejection, which is exactly what he’s been waiting for since that first night in the bar with Dean. It hasn’t come yet, but it seems inevitable at this point. There was a time-various times throughout the years, actually- where Cas thought maybe there was something there, that a feeling or two was returned, or at least interest peaked.

But now, here with a Dean mostly stripped of inhibitions, there hasn’t been a word, a nod, a passing mention of any feelings, platonic or not, Dean feels for him. It all feels like Dean’s just been humoring him this whole time, probably feeling some degree of sorry for him.

Cas stews, falling into a mire of melancholy, when Dean’s quiet voice breaks the silence.

“You haven’t done the other one yet.”

When Cas looks up, Dean inclines his chin towards his right side, wiggling his fingers in a lame attempt at a wave. Fondness surges up in Cas, but he tries to swallow past it as he tightens the ropes around Dean’s left wrist once more and moves to the right.

The right side is the side with the Mark, and Cas treads carefully. He doesn’t loosen the ropes as much on this side, leaving his palms tightly pressed to Dean’s wrist as he rubs more lotion onto them. The motion itself is soothing despite the circumstances, and Cas tries but fails not to succumb to the hazy, quiet atmosphere that has fallen over the room.  He tries to remember that Dean is tied to a chair for a reason, that Cas is massaging his wrists for a reason, that this whole situation is his fault in the first place, an angel with a dying, stolen grace unable to heal a dying friend.

But everything is so quiet, Dean seemingly content to let Cas greedily touch him as much as possible, and Cas takes full advantage. He takes stock of all the freckles on Dean’s wrist, of the pattern of his veins and learns the ridges of his knuckles.

“So you’re human, huh?” Dean eventually asks quietly, picking up their abandoned conversation thread from back at the diner.

In a less volatile state than before, Cas nods.

“Close,” he says, trying to muster up even a flicker of grace for umpteenth time, but getting no answer. “Very close.”

“Is this finally it, then?” Dean says. “The for real, no-takes-backsie fall?”

Cas almost smiles, but it’s not from amusement.

“This grace is not mine. Because of that, when it finally burns out for good, it could technically kill me,” he says without looking up, though he feels Dean’s muscles tense under his hand. “I’m not entirely convinced that’s going to happen, if only because I’ve fallen before and know all the symptoms, so to speak.” Cas moves his hands a little bit, daring to take them closer to the heel of Dean’s palm.

“Angelic Web MD,” Dean says with false bravado, “Nice.”

“If by some chance I regained my own grace, I could still never be what I once was,” Cas continues, “Stealing this grace has tainted me. It was a blasphemous thing to do, and by doing so, I’ve thoroughly ruined any chance of becoming a proper angel again.”

Dean is silent for a moment before saying, halfway to teasingly, “Any less blasphemous than an angel and a demon being friends, though?”

It breaks the tension somewhat, and Cas laughs softly and it feels nice, feels like it hasn’t in a long time.

“I’m not exactly up to date on heaven’s priority list,” he says, this time pushing his luck too far the other way and moving up Dean’s forearm slightly, the muscle here broader and thicker. Dean tenses, but doesn’t say anything. Cas knows the infected skin is just a couple inches higher, longs to touch it but doesn’t know why. To sooth. To cajole. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Cas continues to work in silence, more than aware of Dean’s close proximity. It sets the hairs on the back of his neck to attention, and though it’s hardly cold outside, Cas finds himself wishing he was wearing more layers, if only to hide his own physical reaction to Dean. Human attraction isn’t much of a mystery to him anymore, but it most certainly is a frustration. Especially since said attraction is preceded by years of a kind of battle-forged emotional intimacy.

He tells himself that this is just another battle, that they’ll come out of it stronger on the other side, though he can say nothing on how it continues to be his own personal crusade to ignore how bright Dean’s eyes are, how endearing his smile.

Every pass Cas makes up towards the Mark, he’s edging closer. Neither of them say a thing when Cas rolls Dean’s sleeve up, finally exposing the angry blemish to the air. Cas forces himself to ignore the way the redness has spiderwebbed across Dean’s skin, like cracks in a windshield. The Mark’s tendrils wind halfway down his forearm and disappear into his sleeve where it’s now rolled up to the elbow. Cas doesn’t want to think about how far the Mark’s exterior infection has spread, shudders to think about the tentacles wrapped around Dean’s collarbone, his shoulders, his throat. When he brushes a thumb over the faded edge of one of the red veins, he carefully notes the quick inhale and the brief shudder of Dean’s shoulders. He makes a very quiet noise, one Cas probably wouldn’t have heard if he weren’t listening for it.

He moves his hands, ever so slightly, higher.

“Cas,” Dean warns, voice tight, arm braced even tighter. Cas’ fingers, still slippery with the leftover lotion, knead gently into Dean’s arm.

“Tell me to stop,” Cas says quietly, halting his movements but not removing his hands. He raises his head and Dean is mere inches away from him, watching him with an expression Cas knows would take years to deconstruct every nuanced emotion within. Dean licks his lips, swallowing hard, and Cas’ grip tightens ever so slightly.

Cas watches Dean, expectant. His eyes are burning and he squares his shoulders, saying nothing. But there’s a determination in his gaze, an invitation for Cas to continue.

So he does.

Dean is silent as Cas works his ministrations on his arm, watching Dean slowly fall apart in front of him. Sounds that Dean is obviously trying to muffle end up escaping regardless, and before he has time to properly think it through, Cas is hooking an ankle around the leg of the chair and yanking it forward, right to the edge of the devil’s trap and close enough his knees are knocking into Dean’s.

He’s not thinking clearly, not thinking about how bad this idea is. In fact, he’s elated. Aroused. His senses kick into hyperactivity, touch more tactile, mouth dry, hearing amped up high enough he swears he can hear Dean’s heart beating, his blood pumping. His body doesn’t care what color Dean’s eyes are.

Cas’ knee is close enough that Dean can have his free hand braced there, and the first brush of Cas’ fingertips against the Mark itself have him sucking in a great gulp of air, breathing out heavily as his grip tightens, digging into the fabric of Cas’ (née Dean’s) jeans. His thumb is stamped into Cas’ inner thigh, and even through the thick fabric Cas can feel the small bullet point of heat there.

He runs his fingers over the Mark lightly at first, and Dean hisses. His eyes flash black momentarily, but quickly flicker back to green when he catches Cas watching him. He looks elsewhere, sealing his eyes on another point in the room, mouth falling open slightly and chest rising and falling rapidly. Cas traces the Mark, barely touching it, and Dean whines, his grip on Cas’ knee now tight enough his knuckles are white.

“Cas,” he grounds out, then, as Cas increases the pressure, his name becomes a gasp in Dean’s mouth. “Cas,” he says again on a hard exhale, hand clenched into a fist. It makes the tendons in his arm stand out, and Cas can feel the blood throbbing beneath the skin. Making eye contact with Dean, he presses down with his thumb, directly in the center of the Mark.

Dean surges forward and kisses him.

Though Dean is tied to a chair, Cas is the one truly bound, lost in the heat and the salvation of Dean’s mouth. His hands fist in the front of Dean’s shirt, the material nicer than he’s used to seeing in Dean’s wardrobe, and Oklahoma City briefly flashes through his mind before he banishes it, sealing his mouth desperately over Dean’s, stubble rasping and tongues gliding, teeth snapping. He falls into it, falls into Dean because he’s been alone for so long and Dean is warm and Dean is green and most importantly, Dean is Dean.

Dean has no leverage from where he’s sitting, no hands that can roam or feet that can step forward. The one palm he does have on Cas’ leg, he slides down, hooking around Cas’ knee, pulling him closer.

 _This is a ploy_ , a very quiet voice insists _. To use your own feelings for Dean against you._

 _Of course it is_ , Cas thinks headily, _but I don’t care_. Dean’s hand is a firm pressure on the back of his knee, his mouth hot on Cas’. There is no sulphur here, no smoke, no forked tongue. Only a mouth Cas has been watching for longer than he knows, the feel of heated skin beneath his palm as he moves his hand to the back of the Dean’s neck.

 _It’s not Dean_ , the voice insists.

Cas ignores it.

 _Dean died_ , it reminds him. _Dean died weeks ago_.

Cas kisses Dean harder.

 _You killed him_ , it says.

He breaks it off.

His breath comes hard as he leans his forehead against Dean’s, defeated. Slowly, his hand slides off the back of Dean’s neck, falls uselessly to his lap.

Neither of them say anything, merely breathing in the small space between them. Cas’ lips tingle, his stomach flips.

Dean’s lips are so warm. Dean can’t be dead because his lips are warm.

Cas raises a hand, hesitantly presses the tip of his index finger to Dean’s mouth, which is soft and still dewy with saliva. Slowly, he rotates his thumb up, has it replace his finger. Either he can feel Dean’s pulse through his lips, or his own pulse in his thumb is echoing back through him.

He meets Dean’s gaze, and Dean is watching him, looking like he’s not sure which direction he’s being pulled in. The moment hangs between them, tenuous and fragile. The atmosphere simmers. Dean’s hands are clenching and unclenching where they’re bound, Cas’ leg burning where he’s pulled away from Dean’s touch.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Dean says quietly.

Cas looks away, shame creeping up under his collar.

“We shouldn’t,” he mumbles, face burning and chest collapsing inside him. His own hypocrisy is killing him, betraying itself. His heart beats, regardless. His fingers ache, regardless. Everything is buzzing. “ _I_ shouldn’t-” he cuts himself off, making a frustrated noise and rubbing a hand down his face.

“You want to, though,” Dean taunts him. Cas won’t look at him. Doesn’t want to see the imprints of his hands all over Dean.

Cas shakes his head. “This is all wrong,” he says quietly. His knee bumps against Dean’s again.

“C’mon, sunshine,” Dean drawls, and there’s a slight tremor beneath the derision, “Here I am, strapped to a chair, devil trapped, helpless…” He shrugs as well as he can, waggling his eyebrows at Cas.

Cas feels like he’s been slapped.

Disgusted, he rips away from Dean, crossing the room to stand in front of the door, trying to force himself to just leave. To get far away before the implications of what Dean is saying can catch up to him, can root their claws into him and tear him up.

Anger flashes up in him, sudden and unforgiving. He whirls around, but remains where he is. Keeps his distance. Dean watches him goadingly.

“How could you _ever-_ ” He starts coldly, cutting himself off again. Feels so dirty, caked with it, tastes it on his tongue. Feels like he’s taking advantage, taking what’s not his to take. He presses a flat hand to the door to find something to steady himself on.

“Whoa now, at ease soldier.” Dean says easily from across the room. The ropes around his wrists creak, and he chuckles. The sound skates up and down Cas’ spine. “That was an invitation,” he says pointedly. “Not a challenge.”

Cas stares at his own hands clenched at his sides, gritting his teeth. Closes his eyes and asks, because he feels like he has to, “What if you didn’t have that thing on your arm?”

Dean looks down at the Mark, and for a second his mask slips. The edges crack, the paint chips. Cas remembers the look on Dean’s face as he died, how he nestled his cheek into the palm of Cas’ hand.

How Cas failed him.

Dean looks at him, and his gaze burns. He inclines his head towards the arm with the Mark on it, jaw tight.

“If I didn’t have this thing,” he says, “I wouldn’t have had the stones.”

Cas swallows.

“The ‘stones’ for what?”

Dean just looks at him. He doesn’t have to say, but he holds Cas’ gaze, regardless. Holds it until for once, Cas is the one uncomfortable. He breaks the stare, looks away even though he can still feel Dean’s eyes on him.

 _This is a trick_ , he tells himself again. _A trap, and you’re walking right into it_.

So he walks into the trap with the full knowledge that it’s a trap. He knows he’s being played, has seen Dean do it to hundreds of other poor saps with different faces, different lines.

But he wants to be played. He wants to succumb, if only for a minute, because this minute might be his only. The oft-looked at, creased photograph that people keep in their wallets of someone long gone, someone gone very far away. A tether to the past.

Cas sweeps back into Dean like a breeze across a barren field, presses his mouth to Dean’s like the wall of an abandoned shack, ramshackle and debilitated. He’s crumbling from the inside, both of them are, but the wind hasn’t blown them down yet.

Cas knocks, licks the seams of Dean’s lips, and Dean opens. He explores Dean’s mouth, runs his tongue along his teeth and the roof of his mouth, can’t help but wonder how the taste has changed since he woke up with black eyes. Not like he’d _know_ , of course. He’s never kissed Dean as a human, is never sure he’s going to get the chance to, now.

There’s a loud scraping sound as the chair moves across the floor, Cas yanking Dean right up to the edge of the devil’s trap. There’s the no man’s land between their bodies, both of them sitting forward to kiss, their connected mouths a tenuous bridge built over a deep canyon. Cas cradles Dean’s jaw in his palms, lamenting the lack of Dean’s hands on his own body.

Dean, however, is seemingly unconcerned with his lack of useable hands. He kisses Cas hard and hot, is much more experienced than Cas for sure. He nips briefly at Cas’ bottom lip, runs the tip of his own tongue along the sensitive sides of Cas’.

Every second is blinding, a sensation so strong Cas can’t tell if he’s hot or cold, too exposed or suffocating. He can feel the panic in his chest as it climbs his throat, but he swallows hard, pushes it down to where the guilt and the exhaustion and the hopelessness and the doubt still fester constantly, eating away at him from the inside. This either _is_ Dean or this _isn’t_ Dean, but things seemed so much less complicated when there was still space between their mouths. He doesn’t know how to process Dean blaming the kiss on the Mark, and he’s afraid to.

So he doesn’t.

He wonders if Dean can feel the desperation in the way Cas clutches his face. The way Cas is begging for Dean to come back to him with every press of his fingertips, every sweep of his tongue. The reverent way Cas holds his jaw, like Dean could break at any second despite the both of them knowing that Cas is the one much more likely to shatter, these days.

Cas gets suddenly overwhelmed by the desire for things to return to normal. Not that he hasn’t constantly been wishing for that since the moment he saw Dean in that warehouse weeks ago, but this is something different, something uglier. Of course Cas wants Dean to be okay, but Cas is also _tired_. He doesn’t want to chase Dean anymore, he doesn’t want to spend countless, fruitless hours in dusty libraries that offer no answers. He’s tired of driving alone, of eating alone, of sleeping alone. So much of his time before-and even during- his acquaintance with the Winchesters, he’s been on his own, aloneness a thing he’s accustomed to, but loneliness a whole other, heavier burden to bear. The bunker echoes with it, his car rattles with it even when the radio is on. Single bed rooms in motels never cease to make him think about it.

The feeling all comes up in one great big surge, that ache punching into Cas so hard it feels like someone’s got a hand around his heart, twisting. It drives him further into Dean in an attempt to chase the cobwebs out of the corners of his attic, to open the curtains and let some of the light in. Everything ratchets up a notch, and Cas can feel himself unravelling, Dean pulling and pulling and pulling on that one foundational thread that was used to knit up his entire being. Cas valiantly wishes for better times, better days, though in the same moment he wonders, what out there is better than the heat emanating from Dean in this very motel room?

There’s a loud cracking sound that Cas hardly registers at first, files it away as a commotion from another room or someone loading something into a car trunk outside the flimsy motel walls. When Dean’s hands press against his waist a moment later, Cas doesn’t even take it as strange at first, too caught up the feel of it all, the wet drag of Dean’s mouth against the bolt of his jaw. He does notice, however, when Dean stands to his full height, his palms pushing Cas backwards down the aisle between the beds till Cas’ lower back bumps against the nightstand against the wall.

Cas pries himself off Dean, stomach dropping to his feet as he looks around Dean’s shoulder at where the chair now lays in splinters over the edge of the devil’s trap. He looks back up at Dean, the panic flaring up in him, this time unbidden.

“How did you-” he begins, but then Dean is on him again, ropes still around his wrists as he drags his hands under the hem of Cas’ shirt, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. He kisses Cas’ neck, yanking his shirt off to one side so he can get at the skin nearer his shoulder.

“Shoulda let the trap dry all the way,” he says against Cas’ skin, dragging his lips there as he speaks, earning a great shudder from Cas. “Broke it when you pulled the chair closer, you horny devil.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Cas manages to get out before finding himself pulled back to Dean’s mouth like a planet in orbit, knowing full well he could get sucked into the nearby black hole if he doesn’t traverse carefully.

Dean keeps crowding him in, and Cas has nowhere to go but onto the nightstand, sweeping his arm out behind him to knock the lamp and alarm clock away, the lamp sputtering as it falls to its side on one of the beds. The new angle of the now crooked shade casts the room in a moodier glow than before.

Cas is the one sitting now, his back against the wall as Dean leans down, kissing Cas like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. One hand grips the side of Cas’ neck and the other lies next to the hollow of his throat, and Cas starts to think he’s not the only desperate one in this room. He has one hand in Dean’s hair, one roving along his back under his shirt, the skin burning hot against his palm. He kisses Dean like he’s forgotten how to do anything else in the world, fists his hand in the center of Dean’s lower back as he tries to draw him, inevitably, closer.

He doesn’t mean to say it, but the “Please stay,” falls out of him like someone just swung a baseball bat at his mouth, the sound of little white teeth bouncing against the table and floor only punctuating the ensuing, loud silence between them. Dean rips himself away, face white, taking a step back as Cas watches in defeated horror as the flippant, smug mask slips comfortably back into place. Dean can’t yet erase the flush tinging his cheeks or calm his erratic breathing, but Cas knows when a window of opportunity is closed, and this one just shut with a slam. Dean’s face breaks out into a terrible, wolfish grin as he faux-casually polishes his fingernails on the front of his shirt.

“How the turntables, huh?” he says, eyes glinting. “All those times I called for you and you never showed. All those times I offered you a beer and you said no. All those goddam prayers I sent you-oh, I dunno, Purgatory ringing any bells?” He shrugs dramatically, the gesture bigger than it needs to be. “Trust me darlin’, I get not being number one on your speed dial. But when the time comes and suddenly _I’m_ the one who needs to stay?” He shakes his head, animalistic smile still in place. “No way, pal.”

He locks eyes with Cas for only a moment before snorting and turning away, mumbling to himself. He’s obviously frazzled, fraying at the edges as he hovers for a moment, indecisive, then turns for the door. He’s got a hand on the knob when Cas finally speaks up, only now trusting his voice and his composure.

“That’s a complete lie and you know it,” he says lowly, letting his tone slip into something darker, more dangerous. No one questions his loyalty to Dean, including Dean himself. “You’re running,” he accuses. “From me, from the Mark, maybe both. I don’t know about the Mark, but I know for sure you can’t outrun _me_ , Dean.”

At the door, Dean stills, shoulders taut.

“I was never meant to be the angel on your shoulder,” Cas continues, letting some of his pent up anger leak into his tone, “But I _will_ be the monkey on your back for as long as it takes. I would follow you as you murder the world. I would follow you into hell again, if that’s where you decided to go.”

Dean doesn’t turn around, but he does turn the knob.

“You can walk out that door, Dean,” Cas threatens, all previous traces of doubt currently lost or cowering somewhere far away inside him, “But rest assured, sooner or later I will find you again.”

Dean opens the door and stares out into the night, refuses to look at Cas.

Trying to cash in on what is obviously his last chance, hardly thinking, Cas blurts, “I return the sentiment.”

Finally, Dean turns around and meets his eye. He doesn’t have a chance to school his face before Cas can see how haunted he really looks.

“Which one?” Dean asks, as they both know there are many.

Cas looks at him softly, feels the anger melt out of his expression as the words echo strangely in his mouth from what seems like another lifetime when they came from Dean’s side, not his own.

“I’d rather have you,” he says quietly, “Cursed or not.”

Dean swallows hard, and Cas watches how his right hand curls into a tight fist. Dean looks at him for a long time, long enough that Cas thinks he’s going to say something, anything in return.

But Dean just ends up shaking his head, bone weary. His lips are still kiss swollen, his hair a mess from Cas’ hands running through it.

He walks out into the night, shutting the door behind him. There’s a brief gust of wind accompanied by it, and then total silence. Cas doesn’t move from his place against the nightstand, and his chest ticks away slowly in the sudden absence of feeling.

He stares at the back of the door as he lets Dean slip away for a second time, doing nothing to stop him.


	9. Chapter 9

The last of the summer heat burns away in early September, and Cas imagines the inevitably long, gruelling winter ahead. He stares out the window of his office at the trees that are just starting to change color, trying not to object as the green of the leaves starts to fade. The sun has started setting earlier, and his office is painted in stripes of gold, catching dust motes as they drift lazily through the air.

There’s a perfunctory knock on the door, and Cas knows who it is as soon as he hears it. There aren’t many angels around here who knock like that anymore, and of those, the only one who visits him regularly is Hannah.

“Come in,” he says, still staring out the window.

The doorknob turns, and footsteps sound behind him.

“Commander,” Hannah greets.

“How many times am I going to have to ask you to just call me by my name?” Cas asks, even though by now he knows it’s a fruitless endeavor. He’s been asking everyone here to call him “Cas” or “Castiel” for months, and most of them seem either too afraid or too offended to do so. Hannah, he knows, is just doing what she thinks is proper.

“You can continue to ask,” Hannah says, and at the sound of a file slapping down on his desk, he turns around.  “That’s the benefit of free will, is it not?”

Despite how his eyes are itching with tiredness, Cas finds it in himself to quirk one edge of his mouth up in a smile. He’s settled into a strange, almost comfortable banter with Hannah since he arrived here a couple months ago, trying to integrate her into humanity as seamlessly as possible, while she continued to remain flummoxed by societal norms. The other angels have taken to it to some degree at least, but Hannah remains a work in progress. Cas has assured her more than once that not so many years ago, he was in a similar position as her.

“Which permits you to continue calling me ‘Commander’ for as long as you see fit, I suppose,” Cas says smoothly, returning to his chair and taking the file. He holds it up. “What’s this?”

“List of new recruits,” Hannah says, straightening her conservative blazer. “We found them in southern Indiana, living in the middle of a large field in an abandoned train car.”

Cas flips through the file, looking at names and photos. They all look like they could use a shower, but other than that, they seem content. Some of them are even smiling.

“Hippy angels,” he comments mildly as he passes a photo of a girl with flowers in her hair. He almost smiles as he catches himself imagining Dean’s reaction to that, but it quickly turns sour as he thinks about his cold phone in his pocket. He tosses the file back on the desk, sighing, while Hannah watches him with learned patience. After a moment he says, “How are they settling in?”

“As well as they could be, I’d imagine,” Hannah says. Her brows crease in confusion. “One of them said this place was… ‘groovy’?” She shrugs. “I didn’t understand. They seemed to follow the teachings of an old book they found in the train car which is certainly not from this era.”

“No, I would imagine not,” Cas says, amused. “From the 60s or 70s, probably.”

It’s still strange to him, after all this time, that he’s apparently become the teacher. Dean was his primary lens through which he viewed humanity for so long, it’s been more than a challenge to navigate it on his own while his steps were still on unsteady legs. He’s had to adjust quickly though, to help Hannah and the others as much as he can.

Silence falls between them briefly, and then Hannah says, “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

Cas looks up at her, and she’s watching him closely. Not exactly sympathetic, but not mad, either. Upset, maybe. Disappointed, most likely.

“How can you tell?” Cas asks uncomfortably. The angels still don’t know where he goes when he leaves, and he’d rather they not guess.

Hannah shrugs. “You’re always looking out the window,” she says. “You look out the windows more than you look at us.”   

Cas is ashamed, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. Hannah is merely stating the truth, and she’s eased up considerably since their initial meeting at the diner, but Cas feels chastened regardless. He’s been doing his job here, working with the angels to bring the fight to Metatron, unifying everyone under a single banner, but his heart isn’t in it. For a while, he could get away with claiming illness, that he fell harder than most. But as the weeks wore on, he wasn’t unaware of the dissented murmurings beginning around him. No one knows about the grace he stole, and no one knows it may as well be non-existent for all it’s worth now, but they know there’s something wrong. The ones who don’t want to call him Commander anymore, Cas assumes Hannah has been frightening back into line while he’s not looking.

“A few days,” Cas says. “A week, at most.”

Hannah grimaces.

“You promised you were with us,” she says.

“I _am_ ,” Cas assures her, harsher than he means to. “But there’s an entire world outside these walls, Hannah, one I’ve been walking for many years. I have other matters to attend to.”

In this case, “other matters” refers to a demon. Cas has decided it’s better not to share that particular information.

“I will take over in your absence,” is all Hannah says, though her jaw is tight. They’ve had this argument before, pretty much every time Cas leaves.

“Why don’t you just keep this position?” Cas asks, like he does every time.

And like every time, Hannah shakes her head. “It’s not mine to take,” she says. “And if I did, it would leave you no incentive to come back.”

  Cas sighs as he stands, gathering his coat from the where it lies on the back of his chair. For once, this coat is something of his own. When the weather started getting colder a couple weeks ago, Cas hadn’t had time to make the drive back to Lebanon to grab a heavier jacket from the bunker, so he was left perusing thrift stores in Marshalltown. He came away with a black wool coat with a button missing and a couple loose threads, but it was warm and fit him properly. He still wears Dean’s plaid shirts and jeans beneath, his fractured reasoning behind the decision that since Dean certainly isn’t putting them to use, _someone_ may as well.

Hannah watches him as he shrugs into his coat, still in the stage that Cas apparently never grew out of either, where excessive staring isn’t considered strange.

“We still have no word on Sam Winchester,” she says hesitantly, while Cas buttons his coat.

“That’s why I didn’t ask,” Cas says mildly. He’s kept a small detail on chasing down Sam for the past months, but he stopped expecting any news a long time ago. The lead in Appleton dried up long before he was able to get to Wisconsin, since he had been a little preoccupied in a motel room in Vermont with Dean at the time. Despite the occasional angel corpse turning up that shows marks similar to the ones Sam left on previous victims, they appear in no kind of trail. Sam doesn’t seem to be heading in any specific direction, which means the angels can never head him off. There hasn’t been a body found in almost a month, and Cas doesn’t know if that means Sam has given up, or just found another means of disposal. He’s very carefully kept a lid on how exactly he feels about Sam’s methods of persuasion, purposely letting it fall to the wayside. He’s not sure he’ll ever make peace with his priority list, but at least he’s acknowledging he has one now.

Cas and Hannah leave his office together, Cas with his car keys in hand and Hannah with the file in hers. Cas presses the down button on the elevator and they wait in silence. He looks at the building around him, unease still churning inside him even after weeks of getting used to this place.

The angel compound is outfitted nicely, the status of enough of the vessels keeping a steady stream of cash flowing into their operation. It’s a large building tucked away that was probably meant to be a convention center or office building at some point, but has since been refurbished to accommodate living quarters, proper bathrooms, and work spaces. This is an army base now, and it’s that thought that still has Cas staring at the light walls and modern slants with a knot in his stomach.

They ride the elevator down to the main floor, and Cas doesn’t miss the note of frost in Hannah’s voice as she says goodbye. He makes his way through the throngs of angels still working on various projects, a number of them nodding or muttering a polite “Commander” in greeting as he walks by.

It’s a relief to exit the building finally, the itch off the back of his neck and all eyes finally off him. He makes his way to the Continental, patting it reverently as he slides behind the wheel. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, deliberately not looking at the screen as he tosses it onto the empty seat beside him. He’s tired of waiting for Dean to call, to text, to communicate, somehow, that he’s still alive.

Not that Cas has been much better in that department. He hasn’t talked to Dean since Vermont, when Dean walked out of the motel and disappeared into the night.

Cas starts the car and backs out of his spot, thinking about what happened after Dean left.

He had frozen, for a while. Processing.

Then he picked the lamp up off the bed and threw it at the wall, hard enough to break. After that, he left the motel and drove around the immediate area for the next couple hours, kind of looking for Dean, but mostly trying to work through the myriad of emotions surging through him, all flooding back after that initial cold spot right after Dean left without so much as a word.

Cas wondered why he didn’t try to stop Dean, but it was hardly a mystery. Dean was too strong, too willful. Cas was too weak. If his words couldn’t persuade Dean to stay, nothing could.

He tried calling Dean, but there was no answer. He tried texting him, but he didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing, and Dean returned the favor.

He hasn’t talked to Dean in over two months. He’s been spending every spare minute he has still searching furiously for any kind of remedy, even a band aid solution if he can get it. He’s reread Kevin’s notes on the demon tablet multiple times, but the ritual for curing a demon is specifically for demons that have possessed a host body, not people that have been directly turned. If Cas tried that ritual on Dean, there would be no Dean left by the end of it.

So he’s continued the search, but he can feel himself flagging. He’s thankful he seems to have temporarily reached a plateau with his failing grace. He lives completely like a human now, and the full body exhaustion has leveled out at least somewhat. Sleep has come with practice, though still fitful. Cas suspects that has less to do with his recent humanity as it does with the hole that has been a constant, dull ache in his chest for months now. He has no idea if he’s just going to collapse one day and not get back up, or if this is simply the calm before the storm, the grace sickness waiting to strike when it’s prepared to finally take him.

As it is, he’s at least functioning. So long as he’s functioning, he’s searching for a cure. Searching for Dean.

As he leaves Iowa, he takes the route he’s already driven many times over the past weeks, long memorized by now.

He heads for Kansas, but the memories of the summer follow him like a shadow in his rear view mirror.  

 

I.

Back in July, on an unnaturally chilly day, Cas drives through Illinois. He’s on his way back from meeting Hannah out in the field in Illinois, something about meeting some new recruits. Cas was hardly interested, but he believes in what they’re doing, and he believes in Hannah, so he went as more a show of good faith than anything.

On his way back, he passes a sign on the highway announcing the exit to Pontiac coming up, and he blanches. His fingers grip the wheel, his throat tightens. He hadn’t even realized he’d be passing by that way, hasn’t thought about that hole in the ground in a long time.

He pulls off at the exit, and sense memory takes him the rest of the way.

It’s raining lightly by the time he arrives, and he pulls his shirt tighter around him as he gets out of the car. Dean’s grave is overgrown and long gone, which Cas pretty much expected. It was a hole in the ground a long time ago, and there’s nothing people like more than filling holes. They’re usually not very good at it, but shovelling dirt into a grave is hard to mess up. Small saplings a few feet high are growing on the outskirts of the site where Cas’ initial landing here flattened them all, and he can’t help the smile that brushes across his mouth. Someone must have replanted them.

The gravesite itself is wildly unkempt, the barrenness that Cas had left in its place now knee high grass that leaves wet trails across his pant legs. He comes to a stop where he knows a cobbled together white cross was once standing vigil, hammered into the ground by Sam. The rain is slightly slanted, and the ends of Cas’ sleeve and his shirttail flutter in the wind. Though he wants to believe he can still feel the power of the cosmic event that occurred just below his feet, all that’s left to feel is an echo of his own making. Anything once significant here has been reclaimed by the land around it, save the memories Cas still holds so dearly.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the empty space.

Dean was so afraid when Cas rescued him from hell. Not _of_ Cas, or even the horrors around him, but himself. What he had become, what he had done. When Cas observed in that barn that Dean didn’t think he deserved to be saved, he was going off of more than Dean’s flippant remarks about God and angels. Cas could hardly fathom such a creature at the time, one so consumed by self-hatred and mired in grief, yet deemed the Righteous Man. He had seen it for himself in the pit, the fear with which Dean regarded himself. For weeks after he was brought back to life, Dean would flinch whenever he caught his own eye in the mirror.

Cas stands in front of the grave of the Righteous Man, but the wood is rotten, the grass has grown. The hole has been filled.

He sits down eventually, ignoring the cold and wet seeping into him from the dewy ground. He tries to pick up a piece of soft wood, the only remnants of the cross left, but it pulls apart wetly in his hand, more dirt than wood by now. Nature has reclaimed this spot like it’s wont to do, uninterested in the significance it holds in the mind of a fallen angel.

Rain continues to drizzle down on him as he sits, the occasional sound of a car whooshing by the only thing that keeps him from curling up on the damp dirt and digging until he gets to hell a second time, to pull Dean out of the fire once more.

Dean was so afraid, in hell. And now, having those nightmares follow him out of the pit, latch onto him like the bloated ticks they are… Cas scrapes his nails along the dirt, gritting his teeth. The unfairness of it all makes him breathless with rage, hazy with ire on Dean’s behalf.

But, perhaps selfishly, he mourns his own loss as well. Which is, of course, hard to do since Dean isn’t technically dead. Confusing as well, since Dean is still Dean but maybe not in all the ways that matter.

Or maybe he is, and that’s the point.

Cas hasn’t thought about anything other than Dean’s mouth sealed over his own for weeks. He feels sick, and dirty, and lecherous because of it. Curses his own moment of weakness, his own failings that have led him to ruin time and time again. His naiveté, his willingness to believe in the best in everyone, in the universe, even when all evidence is pointing to the contrary.

However, as much as these factors may have been in play at the time, Cas knows there is a much simpler explanation.

There is, simply, the pull of Dean Winchester. The flame to Cas’ moth.

He brushes his fingers up a piece of grass, catching dew drops on his skin. They run down the back of his hands in light rivulets, leaving cold, wet trails in their wake.

He can feel where the wet ground had soaked into his jeans, and he grimaces at the discomfort. As an angel, he never had to worry about wet jeans. It seems like such an inconsequential thing compared to the grave he’s currently contemplating, and yet like the water, it seeps into his thoughts right alongside emotions that are much more difficult to categorize.

Everything that’s happened in the last couple weeks would have been so much easier to bear if he were still an angel.

Then again, if he were still an angel, none of this would have happened, because that would mean he never fell for Metatron’s façade, the angels never fell, and Cas was never left human and cold and desperate enough to slash the neck of one of his own brothers and drink deep.

The guilt- about his siblings, about Dean and the kiss and the rest of it- sink heavily into him, pressing him into the ground. It’s too much to feel all at once, too dense to properly categorize just how severely and in how many ways Cas has ruined things. It leaves him breathless, hunched over and gasping towards the moist dirt, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them because loose earth isn’t enough to hold him down. He clings to himself, one hand in the other and locking it all in place, desperate for breath that isn’t coming fast enough. Any passing motorist that happened by probably assumes he’s merely a broken man at a long forgotten roadside memorial, and to an extent, they’d be right.

But, he thinks, he’s not a man- not quite yet- and this memorial is the furthest thing from long forgotten. It not only marked the death and rebirth of Dean Winchester, but, as some angels would have it, the beginning of the end for Castiel.

As for Cas, he always saw it as a beginning of a beginning, and now it’s nothing more than dirt under his fingernails and water stains on his clothes.

He stays hunched into himself for a long time, lets himself grow cold and weary and pathetic because he can think of no better sentence, no better punishment. Wonders if the tears just aren’t interested in flowing, or if they’re incapable. Save the rain, his face remains dry. Hollow.

Dean was never his world, Cas knows. They come from separate spheres, literal different planes of existence. There are things Dean could never possibly understand about him, and Cas assumes the same can be said of him with regards to Dean.

But Dean was a world unto himself, the stars that lost travelers used to guide themselves home, and there is nothing that saddens Cas more than when that light burns out, collapses in on itself under the sheer weight of its own magnitude. He’s watched galaxies die and empires crumble and entire species get wiped out of existence, and yet even the slightest dimming of the light inside Dean is on par, if not a greater, reason to mourn.

There is nothing grander than standing on the precipice of a collapsing entity, nothing that inspires awe quite like it. And yet, Cas has come to understand that the true tragedy lies not in the grand death of all things, but the smaller ones that make up the whole. The universe may not care when the stars go out, but Cas will mourn them all as they blink out of existence, one by one.

Cas leaves Pontiac, still dewy from the rain and stinking from the grave.

 

II. 

At the end of July, Cas finds himself in an abandoned warehouse tucked away in the southwestern corner of Iowa, sweating bullets as he prepares a summoning spell. The devil’s trap is painted (and dried, though it really could be nothing else in this stifling heat) on the concrete floor, the herbs are mixed, and all he has to do is light a match.

He wipes an arm across his forehead, trying to chase the sweat somewhere it can’t constantly be stinging his eyes. He tries to blink through it, but he’s so focused on how his shirt is sticking to his skin and the sweat is drying and heating and drying again on the back of his neck that focusing on anything right now, let alone lighting another heat source, may as well be impossible.

He _hates_ the heat, he’s emphatically decided. The sweat that curls the ends of his hair, the dryness of his mouth, the pervasive, sticky cloud that prevents him from falling asleep even on nights he can barely keep his eyes open. He feels like he’s been melting, cast into the kind of hell children’s cartoons often allude to, but never name. Even though the other angels in Marshalltown aren’t as sensitive to it as Cas, he knows they’re feeling it to some degree. Even Hannah took off her blazer the other day, a feat which, according to others who have been around longer than him, everyone had originally thought impossible.

In the heavy, dark heat of the night before, Cas gripped his cock in his hand, sweat already beading at his temples and behind his knees, stroking himself to appease and aggravate the fluttering in his stomach. He’s tried to tell himself for weeks that it’s not Dean’s hands he imagines, Dean’s mouth, but of course that’s a boldfaced lie. The circle he makes with his fist to fuck into is nothing compared to the heat of Dean’s mouth, the trail of his tongue Cas now knows intimately.

The first time Cas came to the thought of Dean with black eyes, grinning at him wolfishly from under his lashes, he had fallen off his bed and scrambled to the nearest garbage can, vomiting his dinner into it. The kiss still turns his stomach in more ways than one, but Cas hardly has an extensive library to draw upon and at least those are the same lips Cas has watched carefully for years. He tries to keep it purely physical, justifying what feels like nothing but an invasion of Dean’s privacy with the need for distraction and whatever table scraps of pleasure he’s been learning to live off lately.

He wipes at his forehead one last time before pulling a box of matches out of his back pocket. He slides one out, strikes it against the flint on the side of the box. When he drops it in it flames briefly, coughing another hot cloud of gas in his face and he feels his cheeks turn ruddy.

It’s more of a phone call than a mandatory summoning, and Cas waits impatiently, palms sweating, hoping someone will eventually pick up on the other end. He paces for a couple minutes, fists clenched.

“Well well well,” a quiet voice drawls from behind him, and Cas whirls around. Crowley is dressed in all black and so many layers of it it makes Cas balk just looking at him. “Look what the sweaty cat dragged in.”

Cas knows he hardly looks like a formidable foe, dressed in an old t-shirt of Dean’s that’s too big for him and sporting at least a week’s worth of stubble. He tries not to look in the mirror so much anymore, but he knows the circles under his eyes have grown larger and darker, and his face has lost much of its color from lack of sleep, and, he assumes, stress. He feels more like a drowned rat than anything, scurrying along the underbelly of the Midwest as he makes backhand deals with hell’s finest, in the very heart of the fire. He musters up his best glare though, despite not having even an inkling of juice to back him up.

“I’m here to make a deal,” he says flatly.

Crowley daintily raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” he asks, walking forward slowly, shiny shoes tapping on the concrete floor. Cas figured his devil trap would be useless, but bristles regardless as Crowley shoots it a contemptuous look as he walks very carefully around the outline. “If I recall correctly, last time we made a deal it didn’t work out so swimmingly for me.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Cas says. He has no interest in beating around the bush, no desire for Crowley to be near him any longer than he has to be.

Crowley looks him up and down, unimpressed. He tsks.

“Pumpkin,” he says condescendingly, “You don’t look like you could get yourself a decent meal at the moment, let alone anything on the King of Hell’s Amazon wishlist.”

“I’m still an angel,” Cas says, but that statement doesn’t hold the same gravitas it once did. Either way, both Cas and Crowley know it’s a lie as soon as it’s out of his mouth, and Crowley smiles slowly, lecherously.

“And oh, what do the people with nothing left to bargain with, bargain?” Crowley asks, walking slow circles around Cas now. It’s too predatory for Cas’ liking, and he steps out of range. “And what oh what would a certain pair of dough brained Winchesters have to say about it?”

 “I didn’t think that was your problem,” Cas says coolly, though he can feel his jaw clench. “You haven’t even asked what I want.”

Crowley huffs, amused.

“Could it have anything to do with a black-eyed beauty running around stealing candy from mere babes, I wonder.”

Cas feels his hands automatically ball into fists.

“You know,” he says.

“I heard it through the grapevine,” Crowley smirks, on his way to singsonging. “Can’t expect to turn a notorious demon killer into a demon and not expect some blowback, love.”

“Then I’m sure you can discern what I’m after,” Cas cuts in, completely uninterested in Crowley’s bullshit.

“Some green contact lenses for the dear lad?” Crowley asks facetiously, throwing a shrug in for good measure.

A bead of sweat trickles between Cas’ shoulder blades.

“A cure, you piece of shit,” he says.

Crowley folds his hands together as if in prayer, pressing them contemplatively to his lips. He walks forward, coming to a stop directly in front of Cas, forehead creased and brow furrowed, as if he’s genuinely considering it. He breaks his hands apart, having the gall to press the tip of his index finger right into Cas’ chest, hard. There’s a smile on his mouth, but his eyes are steel.

“Darling,” he purrs, and Cas can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the hint of sulphur on his breath. He holds his ground, though. Crowley pokes him again, smile widening. “What on earth makes you think I’d want Dean Winchester cured?”

Cas punches him.

Crowley doesn’t have the same decency he once did, however, as he refuses to move with the blow. Cas can feel the crunch of his own knuckles as they connect with Crowley’s immobile jaw, an involuntary hiss of pain escaping him as he spins away, holding his cracked hand to his chest.

A tongue clucks softly behind him.

“Dear me,” Crowley muses, like a school teacher disappointed in their favorite pupil. “I’m hardly one to talk, but look at how far you’ve fallen.”

Cas whirls back around to glare at him, but Crowley isn’t done. He holds out his hands, gesturing at the dirty warehouse around them. “Look at this,” he says, kicking the spindly table Cas had scavenged to lay his ingredients on. They clatter to the floor, the remnants of the summoning spell spilling across the concrete like ashes of the dead. “Pathetic.”

“I thought that’s what got you off,” Cas spits, his hand still throbbing. “The more vulnerable the better.”

Crowley points at him like a host on a game show. “Hey now, there’s that old Castiel spark.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, adopting a much more casual stance. “Do your new angel buddies know you’re here?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Can’t imagine they’d agree to you consorting with a demon, but then again…” he shrugs, ”Guess I’ll have to wait in line on that one.” At Cas’ expression, Crowley adopts his own of surprise. “Then _again_ again,” he continues, having puzzled it out, “What your feathers don’t know won’t hurt them, hm?”

 “Crowley you so much as lay a hand on _any_ of them-”

Crowley steps back, hands in the air, mock offended.

“Nary a hair on their possessed heads,” he swears, crossing his heart. “We’re playing completely different games now, you and I.” He lowers his voice, suggestiveness in the quirk of his lips. “If you want to get into bed, you’re really going to have to make it worth my while.”

Cas scoffs in disgust, staring upwards, focusing on single point on the ceiling.

“Can you cure Dean?” he asks stiffly, still not meeting Crowley’s eye.

“I’d imagine you can do almost anything if you put your mind to it and apply a can-do spirit. And let’s be honest, strumpet, your spirit when it comes to double dastardly dealings are can-do times two.” He considers, then adds as an aside, “Now that you’re human, you should really consider politics.”

“It’s a yes or no answer,” Cas snaps.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun at all when the meatsack you’re in love with insists on separate vacations. Imagine that.”

Cas glares at him, silent, until Crowley relents with a huff.

“Yes,” he grouses, “I can find a way to cure your life partner. Might have to sacrifice-”

“Do it,” Cas interrupts. “I don’t care.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to glare at him now.

“Don’t come early, love, it’s inconsiderate,” he trills. “I get you off, you get me off.”

“Name your price.”

“Half the souls in purgatory?” Crowley asks, then makes a face. “Oops, no, wait. Wrong dirty doublecrossing deal. That was that _other_ dirty doublecrossing deal.”

“ _Name your price, Crowley_ ,” Cas grits out.

Crowley looks him up and down slowly, considering. Cas wipes sweaty palms on his jeans.

“I still want Abaddon dead,” Crowley says, and Cas almost sags in relief. Crowley holds up a finger. “Ah ah, not so fast,” he continues. “That’s my fee for Dean. You’re getting a whole different bill.”

Cas stiffens. “Spit it out then,” he grounds, “The tone of your voice grates.”

Crowley smiles.

“Your grace,” he says.

Everything in Cas goes very still.

“What could you possibly want an angel’s grace for?” he says, though it sounds strange to his own ears. He’s hardly thought about his grace all summer, hasn’t had the time between everything else going on, minus the occasional pang of regret that he pretends he doesn’t understand, has chalked up to normal, human existentialism.  

Crowley winks playfully.

“That’s hardly any of your business, is it?”

Cas feels his jaw tighten.

“I have no grace to sell,” he says flatly. “And no means of retrieving the grace I’ve lost.” The angel compound flashes in his mind, the faces of his brothers and sisters flickering before his eyes. It was always a possibility, if a distant one, that once they finally took the fight to Metatron, Cas’ grace might be retrieved.

Crowley has obviously made this deduction as well, as he watches Cas condescendingly.

“Now we all know that’s not true, Castiel,” Crowley says. “You get me the grace, I get you the cure.”

“How do I know you can find a cure?” Cas asks.

“How do I know you won’t double cross me again?” Crowley says. “These are devil’s games, darling. Everyone’s got a knife slipped between their cheeks. It’s just a matter of being careful how you sit.”

Cas rubs a hand across the back of his neck, and his skin is slick with sweat. He stares at the ground for a long time, can feel Crowley’s beady eyes on him.

 _This is a just in case deal_ , he promises himself. A last resort, if nothing else works out. It’s pragmatic, proactive to have a backup plan.

On the less pragmatic side, however, he can’t help the tang of bitterness that spreads across his tongue. His grace remains in the hands of another, and he’s already trading it away to someone else. He wonders if this is how Dean felt years ago, when he sold his soul at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. That same unfairness lingering at the back of his throat, that same tinge of regret, despite believing that the end justified the means.

He swallows it all down. Holds out a hand.

Crowley puckers his lips for a moment, smirking at Cas’ expression, then extends his own hand, his grip too tight and too dry for this weather. Cas’ hand slips against his palm, and when they break apart, Crowley pulls a hanky out of his pocket and daintily dries his hand, grimacing slightly.

“Well,” Crowley says, “Let’s hope that was a mutually beneficial, if moist, agreement.”

“One day I am going to stab you in your heart,” Cas says nonchalantly as he bends down to start cleaning up the spilled spell ingredients. He sweeps what he can back into the bowl. Behind him, Crowley makes a disgruntled noise.

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m not going to shake on that one,” he says.

“Oh, I’m not making another deal,” Cas says, still focusing on the cleanup. “I’m making a promise.”

There’s a brief silence in which Cas thinks Crowley has taken off, and then there’s another tap of a pointy toed shoe on the ground.

“And here I thought we were making progress,” Crowley says.

Cas doesn’t bother to reply.

When he turns around a minute later, Crowley is gone.

***

Cas leaves his shoes by the door of the bunker, and pads through its empty halls in socked feet. He brings a cloth with him, dusts all the surfaces on which the Winchesters used to live their lives.

Dust is mostly dead skin cells, he knows. Since the last occupants of the bunker have been gone since 1958, he assumes that the new coats of grey on all the tables and bookshelves are the remnants of Sam and Dean and himself. It’s a macabre thought, and Cas imagines pieces of himself peeling away even now as he walks through the bunker, cleaning a trail once left, only to leave new tracks while doing so.

He’s visited the bunker a couple times over the summer, but only in passing. He’s done his best with the plants, but his inattentiveness is showing. The plants are all either dying or dead, looking hardly any different than they did the first day he found them.  Most of his time is spent either in Iowa at the compound or in motels on the road, and because of that he finally understands the discomfort that comes from someone watching him sleep. Whenever he works with Hannah, she merely tolerates the pit stops, often sitting motionless for hours every night as Cas succumbs to desperately needed shut eye. Sometimes she reads the rundown Bibles that most motels keep in every room’s nightstand, but much of her time is spent in contemplative silence, watching the night move around her.

He’s never taken her to the bunker, however. Hasn’t mentioned it to any of his new allies. Theoretically, it could be of use to their cause- the seemingly endless archives certainly must possess at least some pertinent information- but he’s been dragging his heels. For months, it’s been sitting empty, gathering dust. Preserving only the books on its shelves.

Objectively, it could probably use some livening up.

But this is still the Winchesters’ home, and Cas will continue to tend to it, should either of them ever decide to return.

He supposes, in a way, it’s his home as well, if Dean’s nervous, casual bravado about offering him a room if he ever needed it is anything to go by, at least. (That being said, this offer came after Dean’s initial decision to kick him out during Gadreel’s tenure in Sam’s mind. While Cas understands that Dean was put in a difficult situation, he’s not above acknowledging that rejection still prods at him sometimes, tucked uncomfortably under his ribs.)

It did offer him a roof over his head while he attempted to get his bearings after Dean died and Sam left, which he’s grateful for. Though he’s acutely aware that everything in this place either belongs to a legacy or a Winchester.

( _You’re in this place_ , he tells himself. _So do you belong to a legacy? Or a Winchester_?)

The heaven Cas once called home is long gone, ripped up by himself, by others, scattered to the winds. He’s not entirely sure he would recognize it if he went back, if a constantly shifting dimensional plane is something one can ever recognize. So much has happened to it in such a short time, so many wars and upheavals and takeovers, the majority of which had Cas acting as either willing or unwilling party. 

He doesn’t know if he could ever return to a home he destroyed so thoroughly. It would almost feel like a betrayal to go back to a place he once found solace in, a respite he doesn’t deserve. Once, sometime after Naomi’s grip on his mind had ceased and before Metatron took a blade to his neck, Cas closed his eyes and searched for the endless, sunny Tuesday afternoon of the autistic man who died in a bathtub in 1953. He never actually went to that heaven, but he looked for it, called out to it.

And received no answer.

He didn’t look any further.

The compound in Marshalltown, he supposes, he could call a home. It’s the place where he’s been laying his head for months, the place he does his work and the place he’s

(settled for)

settled into.

The angels don’t know he’s currently housing stolen grace, however. They don’t know about his endless attempts to find Dean, or the real reason he wants to find Sam. Were they to find out, surely Cas wouldn’t be able to call this place a home anymore.

A home is a very human concept, Cas thinks. Literally, four walls and a roof. Heaven has no walls and the compound has too many. There is nothing homey about heaven, and the compound is a by-product of war. So many of his brothers and sisters don’t understand the difference yet, and Cas is fairly sure some of them never will. The finer points of humanity (many of which Cas still struggles with, though he’s come to the conclusion by now that even some humans share similar struggles) remain mysteries to many of his siblings, or of no consequence. He understands that they are refugees in an unknown land, desperate to return from where they came, and he doesn’t begrudge them that. In fact, he finds himself slightly envious of that surety sometimes, that sense of right and wrong that has slowly faded over the years to a much muddier gray.

Humans are not always so literal though. There are similes and metaphors and figurative language. There are euphemisms and hidden meanings and double entendres. If a home doesn’t have to be a place, can it be something else? A memory, a scent, a feeling.

A person.

Cas’ home is not heaven or the bunker or the compound. He reasons, maybe home is the thing you’re always coming back to. Maybe home is all you think about after you leave it. Maybe home is what you’re chasing. Maybe once you catch it, it’s the only thing that finally stops you.

If home is the thing you’re always coming back to, well. Cas has never come back to one as often as he’s come back to Dean. 

That night, Cas shuffles into Dean’s room and sleeps on his bed, even though the sheets don’t smell like him anymore.

***

Dean’s jaw has been aching all summer.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s a tooth, for sure, somewhere in the back of his mouth. A molar. He’s poked at it, prodded it, wiggled it with his tongue like he’s seven years old and hoping for a visit from the tooth fairy.

But there’s nothing wrong with it.

The pain forks like lightning down his whole jaw though, throbbing on some days, simmering on others. Ever present, just as snuggled up to him as his newly returned First Blade, one hot against his tongue, the other against his back. He’s wondered more than once, through a shitty July and a sweltering August, if it has anything to do with the Mark. He can’t necessarily prove it, as the pains don’t seem to be connected in any meaningful way, and it’s not like he’s going to book a dentist appointment. On a particularly bad day in early August, he sat with a bag of ice from a rusty ice machine in a shitty motel against his cheek, but he was holding a bag of water within minutes.

Food or drink doesn’t affect it, at least, which he’s grateful for. Even the strongest whiskies go down easy, slide right on by the pain like a man in a barrel goes over a waterfall. In fact, it might even dull the pain a bit, although Dean has no hard evidence for this.

Which means he drinks a lot, and that in no way has anything to do with anything else. Has nothing to do with the way he’s been staring at a certain shitty, low-res low-light picture in his phone every time he gets morose enough.

That head of hair could be anybody, he tells himself. That bedroom, anybody’s. It doesn’t have to be Cas, head resting on elbows, sleeping half on Dean’s bed. That defeated slope of the shoulders? Universal.

Can’t bring himself to delete it though. He’s tried, multiple times. Failed each attempt.

Looking at this shitty, low-res low-light picture is better than thinking about that motel room though. About that kiss. The pain in his jaw is better than that. The red heat under his skin, the red cracks visible _on_ his skin, making his arm look like someone took a crowbar to a strip of stained glass. Both better than that. 

He’s spent lots of time killing things over the summer. Demons, ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, vampires. The heftier the better. He sweated through the south, eventually fled north in his stolen Impala during a roasting heat wave near the end of July. Ditched the nice clothes. They were a nice thought, but he’s shredded, walking around in tatters half the time. Doesn’t feel like threatening shopkeepers anymore, doesn’t care about holding blades to their throats. Steals what he can from surplus, even occasionally checks dumpsters if he’s desperate enough. Whenever he passes by a laundromat, he ducks inside, takes a peek in all the machines to see if anything is his size.

His constant companion presses hard into his hip, the teeth dragging along his skin.

 

I.

After the kiss, Dean runs out of that motel room like his ass is on fire. Hotwires the first car he can find, and drives until the riot in his head finally disperses enough for him to think, at least semi-clearly. He’s used to the reddish tint that overlays all his thoughts now thanks to the Mark, but Cas is a different color entirely. Cas is the white light through which all other colors shine, and Dean smashes that prism, crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

He’s wisps of the smoke that curdles the air between them. Insubstantial. Grey. A disease. Sooner or later, when he’s swallowed up fully by the red, he’s going to burn Cas and it’s going to turn the both of them to ashes.

So he tries to outrun the fire.

It’s so easy now to let the bullshit roll off his tongue when he’s around Cas. The more afraid he gets, the easier it rolls. The more things he kills, the easier it rolls. The redder his thoughts, the easier they roll.

He takes it all, everything he ever knew or was ever afraid to suspect about Cas’ feelings for him, and throws it back in his face. Chips away at Cas’ constitution in the cruellest ways he can, tries to drive him away with callousness and hard eyes and stiff hands.

It’s supposed to be letting go, freeing himself from all inhibitions. But instead he finds himself falling, harder and faster than he ever meant to, being pulled away by a riptide he didn’t even realize he was caught in until it was too late. Cas has offered him life raft after life raft, but Dean’s too afraid to take hold, too afraid he’s going to drag Cas down with him if he even makes the attempt. He lets it slip through his fingers every time, a dead man spread eagle in the ocean.

He drives past two county lines while the black of night fades to the dull gray of morning, thinking of nothing but the lines of the highway disappearing beneath the tires of this shitty Corolla he stole from the motel parking lot. The plan is to get as far away from Cas and that motel as possible and stay that way.

Said plan of course is ruined while just a couple miles away from county line number three, when Dean rolls to a stop on the shoulder of a deserted road, the heat on his arm flaring up angrily. He sighs heavily, leaning back against his chair as he stares out the windshield in defeat. He’s been with this thing for too long now, knows it’s only going to get worse from here. Knows he’s going to give into it eventually.

He leans his forehead on the top of the steering wheel, closing his eyes and breathing slow, in and out. He’s all twisted up inside, knows there are wires crossed that shouldn’t be crossing, some running through that Mark on his arm, some not.

For a long time, he tries to convince himself he can stay away. That he’s not whipped by a goddam jawbone on a stick.

The Mark throbs dully, and Dean knows that’s just a warning sign. Knows the real beating is just around the corner if he doesn’t hurry his ass up.

He knew a guy once, an old hunter buddy of his dad’s named Jeremy Wright.  Wright was a big guy, mean and nasty and leathery and one hell of a brute. He was scarred head to toe, blind in one eye and could still nab a headshot from further than most men with 20/20. His Harley was an eyesore, low-seated and ugly as sin, coughing out black gunk like it was possessed by a demon. Dean remembers overhearing his dad tell a story in a bar once, totally sauced and practically falling off his stool. Dean had been sixteen or seventeen at the time, a fake ID and a fifty in the hand of the bouncer getting him inside. John was kind of teaching Dean how to play pool, but mostly teaching him how to hustle it. Luckily, Dean was a natural.

There was a barely touched beer sitting in front of him on the counter, condensation on the sides long dribbled onto the bar. He had been afraid to drink anymore, knowing full well he’d need to drive his dad home and put him to bed, preferably without waking Sam, who he’s pretty sure was working on a book report at the time back in their motel room. Every once in a while when John would look over, gaze hazy with alcohol, Dean would hastily fake a sip, fake a smile. John would clap him too heavily on the back, digging his fingers into his shoulder.

“’Atta boy, Dean,” he slurred multiple times that night. “Just like y’r old man,” he said as he took another drink. Dean basked in the praise, but didn’t let one more drop of alcohol pass his lips that night.

The story John told about Jeremy Wright involved two things: A bottle cap and an eye. Wright was hunting a wraith somewhere in Virginia, got snuck up on while he was having a cold one alone in his motel room. Apparently as he had been hunting it, it had been hunting him. A tussle ensued, and when the wraith tried to strike the killing blow with its stinger, Wright had hit it so the angle of attack changed just in the slightest, leaving him with an eye full of poison and a wraith that wasn’t picky about point of entry. It started to push downwards, preparing to enter his brain through his eye socket, but Wright managed to knock it away, embedding a silver dagger he kept on an ankle strap at all times into her chest.

She died hard and she died loud, and Wright still had wraith poison trying to work its way into his system. He knew he had mere minutes before people showed up asking what was wrong, and even less time before the poison kicked in. At this point in the story, John would always chuckle and say he thought the poison had already started its work, since what happened next was so needlessly gruesome.

Desperate to live, Jeremy Wright grabbed the nearest thing with sharp edges- the bottle cap from the beer he had been drinking- and cut out his own eyeball to stop the spread of the poison. Desperate to escape, he drove a hundred miles on one eye before collapsing outside a known associate’s house who could patch him up. After that, he took to wearing an eyepatch. Or sunglasses.

According to the doc who looked after him, that’s why Wright got the migraines. They started up after the incident, the pain bad enough to put him in bed for a week. First there was the tunnel vision. Then the vomiting. Then the fainting.

John always got sober here, because according to him, Wright hadn’t made a sound as he cut out his own eye. Drove that hundred miles, bleeding from an empty eye socket like he just stubbed his toe.

But the migraines. Oh, the migraines. Pain so bad it was blinding. White spots in the vision. Head-clutching agony. Word was the guy still lived with just a little wraith poison in his noggin, swirling around in there with whatever other crazy shit all hunters got.

Wright wasn’t much of a hunter after that. Opened a bar somewhere in the south, claimed the heat was better for his brain than the cold. Dean hasn’t seen him in years. Probably dead by now.

But the reason Dean thinks about Jeremy Wright now isn’t because he’s an old shit friend of his dad’s. The reason he thinks about Jeremy Wright is because he always swore, John said, that before every migraine he’d catch the unmistakable scent of a campfire. No matter where he was, no matter how far from the nearest camp sites, he’d smell them. It was his tell, the tornado sirens blaring minutes before touchdown, giving him just enough time to hunker down in the basement.

He swore it saved his life on multiple occasions, meant it knew when he had to stop driving, or stop walking, or stop hunting. Said at least if he was afflicted, it was nice enough that his brain sent him a warning.

This simmering under Dean’s skin? That’s his campfire. That’s his cue.

Exhausted down to his bones, Dean turns the car around. Gives in. Drives back to the Blade.

***

He spots the hothead in the bar almost immediately. Watches how he possessively gropes at his girlfriend beside him while simultaneously growling at any guy that walks by. There’s an air of resignation about her, shoulders slumped but inclined toward her boyfriend anyway.

They’re a good looking couple, Dean has to admit. Her, pale and redheaded and curvy. Him, broad and dark haired and dark eyed, probably has a killer smile when he’s not being an absolute dickhead.

His initial plan was to go for the girlfriend, but the more he watches them the more he finds his eye drawn to the guy. Dean knows the type. _Is_ the type, actually. Handsome enough to draw in the ladies, pretty enough that “faggot” gets added to list of possible insults and actually carries some weight.

He drinks a beer a couple stools away from them over the course of the night, watches the both of them get progressively drunker. Eventually, they get into some kind of heated conversation, bad enough that the girl starts crying, and the guy gestures hard enough to knock over his drink. For a second, Dean thinks he’s going to smack her right there at the bar, and he feels his hackles rise. He’s seen this same kind of shit play out a million times in a million bars across the country, usually because some asshole doesn’t know how to keep his temper in check, and his girl is the closest, softest thing in punching range.

He almost makes his move then, figures he’s got plenty to work with, but when the redhead makes for the bathroom unscathed minus a few tears, Dean sits back down, recalculating. If he really wants to make this asshole sweat, there are better ways. The guy looks down at his spilled beer in disgust, snaps his fingers at the bartender until he gets a new one.

Sensing his opening, Dean grabs his own unused napkin off the bar and slides off his stool, pushing his beer down the bar as he walks. He slips onto the seat next to the guy, offering him the napkin between two upright fingers.

“Chicks, huh?” Dean says in solidarity. The guy looks at him, and it takes Dean about a second to know for sure that he’s plenty drunk enough. Guys like this, sometimes they don’t even have to be six beers deep to start throwing punches. He shakes his head, chuckling lowly. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t buy ‘em a drink and expect them to be grateful, y’know?”

The guys huffs, plucking the napkin from Dean’s fingers and dropping it onto the spilled beer. “Guess so.” He takes a swig from his new one.

“She’s a pretty piece, though,” Dean says, taking a sip of his own beer, lukewarm now.

The jealousy crosses the guy’s face momentarily, but like Dean expected, his pride of owning a shiny trophy outweighs Dean’s admiration of it.

Boys and their toys. Dean would know, thinks about how the teeth of the Blade feel as they bump along his spine.

“Tight ass,” the guy agrees, “Smart mouth, but tight ass.”

“Fuck, been there, man,” Dean commiserates, feeling like he’s looking into a weird, distorted funhouse mirror.

“I’m sayin’, she’s a right bitch,” the guy continues, “but crazy in the sack. Great tits.”

Dean puts an elbow on the bar, rests his chin on it as he starts to lose patience. He smiles winningly at the guy.

“You must be a scintillating conversationalist,” Dean says through his teeth.

The guy blinks at him blearily before huffing out a laugh and a “yeah” before taking another pull. Dean assumes he’s too drunk to realize he’s being made fun of.

Dean leans forward slightly, the leather of the stool creaking as he shifts his weight.

“Yeah,” he says, definitely breaking the guy’s personal bubble by now. He glances down at where his bruised knuckles grip the beer bottle. “I can see all the evidence of your ‘conversations’ right there.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at Dean.

“What?” he says, just registering the lack of space between him and Dean. He jerks backward, slopping his beer all over himself, swearing. “What the fuck, man.”

“Hey,” Dean grins, easy. He leans forward again. Everything smells like beer and sweat. “I’m just saying, why bother with women at all?” He leans forward a little more, letting a smirk curl his lips as he rests a hand on the inside of the guy’s thigh. He inclines his head towards the entrance to the bathrooms. “Why don’t we go in there, get a little privacy, huh? I’ll drop to my knees, suck your brains out through your dick and give you the best blowjob of your life.” He winks.

Hilariously, the guy seems to actually consider his offer for maybe a nanosecond before shaking himself out of it, a cloud of rage moving across his face.

“You think I’m some kinda faggot?” the guy snaps, ripping his leg out of Dean’s grip. Dean grins because, yep, like clockwork. All these guys are the same. He leans back, grabs the guy’s beer and takes his own sip before sliding it back towards him suggestively.

“Maybe for tonight, yeah,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows. He brings his thumb up to his mouth, bites down on the nail and lets the tip of his tongue flick out suggestively. “Won’t tell your girl, promise she’ll never know you’re thinking about my mouth wrapped around your dick every time you two screw.”

“You pussy son of a bitch,” the guy practically shouts, pushing himself hard enough out of his seat his stool falls backwards. He grabs Dean by the front of his shirt, yanking him from his spot and shoving him backwards.

Dean rights himself, holding two hands up in surrender. “Hey man, I was just offering to suck your cock.” He knows the other patrons in the bar are watching them now, which is exactly what he was aiming for.

The guy charges him, clocking him hard across the jaw. Somewhere in the background, he hears a yell, probably from the bartender. Dean can taste the blood welling up in his mouth, smiling with red teeth as he spits a gob of blood onto the guy’s shoe.

“Want me to lick it off?” he asks good naturedly, just before the guy gives a howl of rage and hits him again, this time in the temple. Dean goes with the blow to lessen the impact, letting it snap his head to the side. The ache spreads slowly up into his skull and skits across his jaw, mingling with the ever present ache that’s already there. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, feels the blood smear across his cheek as he does so.

A big bulky guy, who Dean can only assume is this bar’s version of security, grabs the other guy by the scruff of the neck and starts herding him towards the door. Dean thinks, _not yet_ , and calls out, “What, you gonna let him suck you off instead? Or are you gonna be the one on your knees?”

That seems to do the trick, as the guy shoves out from under security’s heavy grip, stomping back towards Dean and grabbing him by the front of the shirt, shoving him up against the nearest wall hard enough his head knocks off it. Dean smiles woozily, but it comes out one sided because his jaw is too sore to respond to his direction. He blows a kiss at the guy, and it just enrages him further. He hits Dean in the stomach, then the side, then the face again. Dean hears his nose crack under the blow, and the hot flow of warm blood as it starts to gush, soaking his mouth and chin and the front of his ragged t-shirt. He thinks one of his teeth gets knocked loose, or at least chips. He can taste something hard and bony in his mouth, spits it out onto the wooden floor. It’s a piece of a tooth, alright.

Deciding to finally get in on the game, Dean flicks his eyes to black, mostly to give himself an open window. When the guy finally notices, Dean watches the fury on his face as it gets replaced by boozy fear, his eyes opening comically wide. Dean takes his chance, breaking the guy’s grip and shoving him hard backwards. He trips over his own feet, lands hard on the floor.

In the distance, Dean can hear sirens, and he smiles.

He kicks the guy while he’s down, yanks him up and hits him hard enough that he’s sent careening onto a nearby pool table. He grabs a pool cue right from the hand of a frozen bystander, and is about to take the guy for another spin when he notices a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He turns, and the redhead is back, hands over her mouth and face milk white. Dean puts on his most charming grin, points the skinny end of the pool cue directly at her.

“No offense,” he tells her, “But your boyfriend is kind of a dick.”

And that’s when the cops show up.

***

In the cruiser on the way to the station, Dean knows he’s getting closer to the Blade. He can feel it.

Belatedly, he realizes his imposter Impala is probably impounded at the station as well, and he bets he’s shit out of luck on that front.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, tries to figure out where the chip of tooth fell out but can’t feel any strange indents on the surface. In his reflection in the tinted window, Dean bares his teeth. He can just barely make out his own ghostly smile in the glass.

He flops back against the seat, stares at nothing. Thinks about how the piece of tooth he lost tonight was pitch black.

He absently raises his shackled hands and rubs at his sore jaw.

                ***

It’s easier to think about like this, Dean decides as he stares up at the ceiling of a jail cell. The way his gaze sometimes lingers on other men seems hardly a blip on the radar when he’s too busy being pulled under the riptide by the Mark.

Priorities, right?

When he was a kid, probably seven or eight, he remembers watching TV in a shitty motel, somewhere in a state that started with an I. Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, whatever. John had dumped Sam off at an old friend’s house for the day, was working a case which Dean now understands to have been a werewolf. John didn’t tell him anything at the time, but had wanted Dean to tag along, regardless. Made sure Dean got a glimpse in the Impala’s trunk before he closed it, of the gun loaded with silver bullets John stuck down the back of his jeans. He was already grooming Dean, preparing him to hunt the monsters whose names Dean couldn’t even spell yet.

The scent of blood hung thick in the motel room, even though John had long since showered it away. As Dean would eventually come to know, blood was stubborn like that. Liked to hide under the fingernails.

They were going to pick up Sam in a couple minutes. John just had to finish his beer first. The first thing Dean learned about hunting? Bring John a beer after one is finished successfully, and bring him two if it isn’t.

John was back on one of the beds, legs kicked out in front of him and hardly paying attention to Dean, whose nose was almost close enough to the thick glass tv screen to touch. He doesn’t remember what he was watching. Cartoons, maybe. Some kind of ball game. Baseball, basketball, football. Doesn’t matter.

The point was, Dean said _something_. He doesn’t remember exactly what. But he made a comment to his dad about one of the boys on the TV screen. Mentioned something he was too young to realize he wasn’t supposed to say, something most kids his age had already picked up on from going to school and having friends and simply living their lives.

But Dean didn’t go to school very often. He had no friends. The life he lived was anything but simple. He didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to say anything about the boys on the TV screen.

His dad’s beer can was set very gently onto the nightstand between the two beds. Dean remembers how ominous that sound was, because the only time John Winchester was quiet was either during a hunt or right before he was about to completely go off the rails.

The bed springs groaned quietly as his dad pulled himself off the mattress. Dean was too scared to turn around, braced himself as he heard his dad’s footsteps draw nearer down the narrow aisle between the beds. He felt rather than saw his dad looming over him, swallowed hard. Unsure what exactly he had done but sure it was his own fault nonetheless.

John didn’t say anything, didn’t lay a single finger on Dean, though he did get hit in the face with the smell of beer and blood as John leaned over his shoulder and turned off the TV with a flick of his wrist. Then he straightened up, grabbed his brown leather jacket (the one Dean would start wearing on his fourteenth birthday and wouldn’t give up for years afterward) and left the motel room.

The lock clicked softly back into place, and Dean sat in stunned silence as he heard the familiar roar of the Impala, and her fast receding engine as John sped far far away from his oldest son.  

He didn’t come back for hours. Never called. Later, Sam would ask Dean why their dad was so late picking him up. Dean didn’t say anything to Sam, but he was a smart kid. He figured it out eventually. Knew why John was punishing him. Sometimes his dad wouldn’t say anything at all, and it would be Dean’s job to figure out why he screwed up. Dean’s job to fix it.

So for the rest of John Winchester’s living days, Dean never said another word about the boys on the TV screen.

But John Winchester didn’t live forever, and Dean didn’t wear that leather jacket forever. It was a slow going process, extricating every particle in the cloud of smoke John left hanging over Dean’s head. It is, in fact, an ongoing, if mostly unconscious practice.

Dean has been lead to water, so to speak, but has yet to drink.

The black eyes make it easier. Make it seem like not such a big deal. That night he sat next to Cas on the couch in the bunker’s den, could barely choke out coherent sentences, haunted him for weeks afterward. Scared him so bad he started to have nightmares about hell again.

Then he got stuck by that rogue angel blade and woke up with black eyes and things became less about the dude thing and more about the _Cas_ thing, and even Dean can appreciate that for what it is. Freeing up one handful of rocks only to drop a boulder into his palm.

As a demon, at least John Winchester’s ghost haunts him less than his own.

***

All it takes to break him out of his cell is a loose nail in the bedpost and a sharpened piece of cracked plaster, and the knowledge that this particular county hasn’t quite entered the 21st century yet. The only newish tech in the place is the computers, and even those look like they’d be behind the times in the pilot episode of The X-Files. The evidence room itself is a simple enough lock to pick, and soon enough Dean is rummaging through the shelves, searching for the Blade he assumed got picked up by the cops once they showed up at the sawmill.

He can feel it thrumming under his skin, like there’s a live wire connecting him and it. He rifles through various bags containing everything from pistols to tissues, receipts to retainers, and eventually comes upon what he’s looking for, unceremoniously stuffed at the back of a bottom shelf. The anticipation practically pierces through him as he holds the bag in his hands, even the feel of the outline of the Blade raising goosebumps on his arms.

He rips open the bag, sighing in relief as he can finally run his hands over the hilt again, grins in satisfaction as he runs the tips of his fingers down the jagged edge of teeth. He feels renewed, rejuvenated. Allows the worries of the last few days to be swallowed up, muted by the buzzing of the Mark in his veins.

In fact, he’s so sated, he brings the Blade up to his mouth and kisses the flat of it. Presses his lips to the grooves of the teeth, reveling in their unevenness.

For a brief moment, he presses the tip of the Blade to his tongue, bites down on it just to feel the solidity between his lips. There’s the faint tang of blood, mostly hidden by the dust of the sawmill that no one bothered to wipe off. He swallows eagerly, the riot in his head calming at the taste, the familiarity.

 _Welcome home_ , he lies to himself.

 

II.

Dean spends the rest of the summer killing things. Some definitely deserve the axe. Others, maybe not so much.

But Dean swears he always has a good reason. The Blade remains warm at his side, presses heat into his skin that makes him think of Cas in all the worst ways.

He lets himself have one, very very early on a thundery August morning in Nebraska. He pulls over to the side of the road and grabs his phone from his pocket, long in disuse. With slightly shaky fingers, he opens up a blurry, badly lit photo, and stares at it for half an hour. He forgets the pain in his jaw, almost manages to forget the heat on his arm and the humidity of the morning that hangs like a displaced ocean in the air. He swims in it.  

 ***

At the end of the summer, Dean’s made a habit of haunting every seedy bar he comes across. He stays away from any he knows are frequented by hunters, but all others are fair game. He hustles pool and pretends to suck at darts until they’ve doubled down and suddenly he doesn’t. He drinks bottom shelf whiskey and looks like every other lonely sad sack that comes to places like this to drown. He listens to the same tinny music being pumped from the same old cracked jukeboxes, breathes in the same smoke from cigarettes he’s started to bum. He was never much of a smoker for a number of reasons, mostly because of lack of funds and because one addiction is more than enough. But the real reason he never got into it, even though he easily _could’ve_ , is because he didn’t want to smoke around Sam. Didn’t want to expose the kid to all that toxic crap, for all the good it did either of them.

But Sam’s fucked off to God knows where, so Dean bums the occasional smoke. No one to protect anymore. Takes drags on his cigarettes in complete silence, wonders if the Mark would let him die of lung cancer if he became a pack-a-day-er. Probably not.

He watches the people in these bars carefully. Knows what he’s looking for, pretends he doesn't. Has yet to find it, anyway. Sometimes the eyes will be right, but not the hair. Sometimes the mouth right, but not the nose. He’s convinced himself this’ll get it out of his system, but then again, he’s always been good at lying to himself.

Tries not to think about a heated mouth pressed to his own, the warmth of skin beneath his palms. It ended in disaster, because it’s always been bound to end in disaster. At the moment, Dean wants blood more than he wants warmth. Maybe that was the case even before he died. Maybe that’s why the stink of hell has clung onto him for so long.

 _You can take the boy out of hell…_ he thinks wryly.

He finds the person he’s looking for, eventually. On a dark, crisp night in mid-September, somewhere in one of the Dakotas. He’s well built, with dark hair and blue eyes. Lacks the under-eye circles, but then Dean just figures he won’t feel like he’s keeping the guy from a long-overdue nap. Dean forgets his name as soon as it passes his lips, but he does notice that the mouth isn’t quite right, either. The eyes are a shade too dark, the hair a shade too light. He dresses too respectably.

They talk about bullshit. Dean turns on the charm but closes the shutters behind his eyes. He’s been doing this for so long he can switch on the autopilot and let that do his work for him. He promises himself that this will work. Lies when the guy asks him about the “tattoo” on his right forearm. Dean chuckles and says it was a drunk mistake made back in college.

The guy puts a hand on his knee and asks him if _this_ is going to be a drunk mistake, and Dean swallows the rest of his drink before grinning and saying, _of course not_.

This is supposed to be the palate cleanser.

They go to a motel nearby and he asks Dean kindly if he’s ever done anything like this before-his question is very pointedly about  men- and vague recollections of blurry truck stops and cramped, dirty gas station bathrooms when he was a teenager flash before his eyes and he says, _yeah, for sure_. Thinks about the kiss he’s not supposed to think about. _Definitely, man_. John sometimes wondered where he was, during those nights. Seemed afraid to ask, but Dean always covered his tracks. Popped a stick of mint gum. Claimed he was hustling pool. They never talked about it.

The guy is gentle, and Dean feels bad for him. Wonders why a gentle man is stuck in a place like this with a guy like him. There’s no ring on his finger or the tanline in the shape of one. He’s got at least some money, Dean can tell from his clothes. He doesn’t ask for a story, though. Doesn’t want one.

He kisses Dean, and Dean goes with it. Clutches too hard at the front of his shirt before he remembers himself, eases off. Comes off like a prude, probably for the first time ever.

At one point, Dean says a name.

It’s not the right one.

He mutters, _shit, sorry_. And the guy smooths a hand down Dean’s side. Says he understands. _Been there_ , he says, and Dean thinks, _probably not_.

His cell phone rings for the first time in months. He answers it with the intention of telling the person on the other line to fuck off, assuming it’s a wrong number or a telemarketer from the other side of the world. Doesn’t even look at the caller ID as he holds the phone to his ear with a gruff, “Yeah?”

There’s silence on the other end, but somehow, Dean’s chest clenches in recognition regardless.

“Yeah?” he says more aggressively, as if daring the caller to prove him wrong.

There’s another beat of silence, and then:

“Dean,” Cas says.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face, collapses in defeat into the desk chair. His expression must change monumentally, because the guy gives a knowing nod and walks into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower turns on.

“Long time no see, sunshine,” Dean chirps, his false bravado ringing hollow. When he speaks he can taste someone else’s tongue.

“I suppose we were licking our respective wounds,” Cas says flatly, and Dean can hear the slight slur in his voice now. He’s drunk. “Also, fuck you.”

“Ouch,” Dean says. He moves over to the bed he wasn’t just making out with someone on, the springs creaking under him.

“Are your fingers broken?” Cas asks, his voice swaying in and out. “Did you forget how a phone works?”

“Did _you_?” Dean asks, unable to keep the frost out of his voice.

“Obviously not, since I’m the one calling you.”

Dean snorts loudly. “Yeah, drunk off your ass.”

“You don’t even know,” Cas says, amazed. “You don’t even realize, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Of course not,” Cas laments. There’s a brief silence and then the dull sound of a bottle hitting a table and Dean assumes he just took another swig of whatever he’s drinking. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Jesus, Cas, spit it out,” Dean snaps. His body is somehow hot and cold all at once.  He hasn’t heard this voice in months.

“You’ve probably forgotten all about it, Dean Winchester,” Cas spits bitterly. “But I never will. You- you seem to have that effect on people, did you know that? Cause lemme tell you, these last couple months? _Fuck_ you, Dean. I’ve lost seasons for you. I wish I could forget you.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. He breathes into the phone, listens to Cas shuffling around on his end. He hears another bottle clinking.

“In ten minutes, it’s going to be September 18th,” he mutters, all the sting going out of his voice.

For a heart-stopping second, Dean doesn’t know what Cas is talking about.

Then, Jesus Christ, of course he does. Of course he remembers.

“I haven’t been paying much attention to the date,” he says quietly, glancing at the still-closed bathroom door. That’s true in more ways than one.

“I pulled you out,” Cas moans, “I was supposed to save you, that was my job.” There’s a sharp intake of breath. “I’m so sorry I failed you, Dean.” His voice breaks. “I couldn’t save you.”

Dean glances once more at the bathroom door before standing and crossing the room. He unlocks the door and lets himself out, letting it shut behind him as he walks along the sodium-lit pathway outside the motel.  The parking lot is silent at this time of night, the only sound the twin hummings of the pop machine and ice machine at the end of the walk. He leans against the side of the dull red Coke machine, more than aware it’s been about a minute now since Cas last spoke. His throat doesn’t seem too interested in working at the moment.

“If you’re at the bunker, you better not be drinking the good stuff,” is the best he can come up with.

“Better get over here and stop me, then,” Cas taunts. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here to do it.”

Dean stares at where he has a hand resting on his thigh.

“Cas,” he pleads.

“I miss you.”

“Cas,”

“Please come home.”

Dean sighs, staring up at the underside of the awning as he runs a defeated hand down his face.

“I’m not going to do that,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.

From Cas’ end, there’s the sound of smashing glass. Dean has no idea if it’s a drunken accident or fit of drunken rage. Either way, when Cas comes back on the line his voice is low with fury.

“You never _asked_ ,” he hisses. “You wanted me to stay? With you? Apologies, Dean, the sum total of my time as a human is still shorter than yours. But from my understanding, when a person wants something, they ask.” He breathes heavily for a moment, Dean can imagine his hairs sticking up in a million directions and his chest heaving. “So here I am,” he says, “I learned the hard way. I’m asking you to come home. To me.”

Dean’s jaw is tight. He’s gripping his phone too hard. He’s terrified he’s going to cave, going to give in and fall to his knees and beg Cas to come find him. Save him from the red of the Coke machine.

Instead, he grabs onto the one other thread he can always count on. The one that’s connected to a million different kites in his chest, each trying to fly away from him, into the sky. The ones he holds closest out of fear, terrified to let go of.

There’s his mother burning on the nursery ceiling. His father lying flat on the floor of a hospital room. Sam, fallen to his knees in the mud of Cold Oak. There’s the empty motel rooms he found himself in as a child. The vacant passenger seat of the Impala after Sam went to Stanford. Bobby’s empty house. Traversing the barren forests of Purgatory, leaving only one set of ghostly footprints. An empty crypt in front of him and the echoes of his own face being smashed to bits, the receding warmth of a palm laid on his cheek. 

These kites all flutter in the breeze inside Dean’s chest, bumping constantly against his ribs and his heart. They want to be taken by the sky, fly until they become tiny pinpricks of color against the wash of bright blue. But if Dean lets them go, there will be nothing left behind but an empty sky and an empty field, and no more kites to fly. He’s afraid of the emptiness. Would rather set loose a horde of lead balloons that fall to the ground with dull thumps than deal with a never ending expanse of nothing.

He holds tight to these kite strings.

“I asked,” he says lowly. “Maybe not in those exact words, but goddammit, Cas, I asked. Over and over again.”

Cas sighs brokenly. “Then yes, Dean, yes,” he breathes desperately. “Are you hearing me? I’ll stay. I promise. I’ll stay.”

Dean leans back hard, needs to feel something solid at his back. Puts a palm over his eyes and feels his throat tightening. His eyes burn.

“That train left the station a long time ago,” Dean whispers, barely able to form the words. He feels like he’s caving in on himself. “You know as well as I do that I’m a lost cause, Cas.”

“You are _not_ lost,” Cas says fiercely, for a moment sounding as sober as the day. “You will never be lost to me. Heaven, hell, purgatory, earth. I will always find you.”

Dean rubs his arm, and the Mark burns hot beneath it.

“Soon enough there’s not gonna be much of a ‘me’ left to find.”

 “Where are you?” Cas asks desperately. “I’ll come to you. We’ll go home, Dean. You’ll get through this.”

Dean slides to the ground, unable to hold himself up anymore even with the help of the wall.

“I can’t,” he breathes.

“Why _not_?” Cas practically shouts into the phone.

Dean drops his forehead to his knee.

“I just can’t,” he mumbles, muffled. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Dean, please,” Cas begs. “Please, we’ll find a way. We’ll fix this.”

Dean shakes his head wearily.

“Bye Cas,” he says, finger hovering over the ‘end call’ button.

“Wait, Dean.” Cas’ voice is frantic. “I l-”

Dean hangs up the phone, lets it dangle loosely between his fingers as he presses his forehead into his knee, staring at the cracked walkway beneath him.  

He’s so tired.

***

The motel room is empty when he returns, which he’s grateful for.

It’s not until he’s stepping into the shower himself that he realizes the tub is bone dry. When he gets out, he finds that none of the towels have been used.

He walks into the empty room, and immediately notices the bed has been remade, or maybe was never rucked up in the first place.

The Mark pulses gently on his arm.


	10. Chapter 10

Charlie doesn’t even say hello when Cas answers the phone. Instead, she greets him with a pointed, “So how long did you think you could keep me in the dark?”

Cas clears his throat as his stomach plummets to his feet. “About what?” he says, carefully neutral.

“Oh, y’know,” Charlie’s voice is a flutter that quickly turns to steel. “About Dean being a _demon_ , man. Jesus. C’mon.”

Cas sighs. “Charlie, I-”

“Was just trying to protect me?” Charlie finishes for him, a challenge in her voice. Cas doesn’t say anything, but he can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “No offense, Cas, but shut up.”

Cas obediently shuts his mouth, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. He’s still feeling the aftereffects from the alcohol last night, and is downright ashamed about his phone call to Dean. Not so much because of the things he said (he has, in fact, said the majority of those things sober), but because of the sheer amount of time it took him to reach out in the first place. Over the summer, he tried to justify not reaching out to Dean. But he knows that what it really comes down to is his own anger. At Dean, yes, but mostly at himself. For failing to find a cure. For failing to bring Dean home. For being unable to prevent this whole mess from happening in the first place. The kiss was just the final nail in a very secure coffin.

There’s a pissy sigh on the other end of the line, Charlie exhaling through her teeth.

“You are such a Winchester,” she complains.

Though it may not be wise to speak right now, Cas replies, “I have no surname.”

“Oh yes you do,” Charlie assures him. “and it’s Winchester.” Another beat, and then, “ _Sheesh_ , ‘let’s hide the truth from someone who’s only trying to help’? When has that ever been a good idea, huh?”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Cas says, though he feels like shit for even trying to defend himself. “I didn’t want to make you a target.”

“Classic fucking Winchester,” Charlie says, her voice sagging a bit now that she’s said her piece and called him out.

“How long have you known?” Cas asks.

“Couple weeks. To be honest, I prepared a lot of this initial conversation.”

“How did you find out?”

“Dude, I’m a hunter. A geek monkey hunter, no less. I’m plugged into the matrix like, 24/7. There are rumors swirling about Dean, you know. Word is he laid the beatdown on a couple hunters a while back. They swear up and down his eyes flashed black.”

“Shit,” Cas says.

“It’s all still hearsay,” Charlie says. “But y’know. Stay vigilant.” There’s a silence. “Uh. If you’re still in contact with Dean, let him know as well.”

“That situation is currently… complicated,” Is the word Cas finally decides on. “I’ll warn him, though.”

Cas can almost hear the pity leaking through the phone. He sits down on the couch in the bunker’s den, rubbing at his eyes.

“I know the story you told me at first was a complete crock of shit,” Charlie says, softer, “But I also kind of believe it’s totally not.”

“I may have given you the short version,” Cas admits. “The very short version.”

“Yeah, I’m no stranger to SparkNotes,” Charlie says. “Thing is, SparkNotes may be brief, but they’re accurate.”

“I did weave the truth in with my lie,” Cas says. “I hoped it would make it seem more legitimate.”

There’s a huff of laughter from Charlie. “Well, Dean tucking tail because he’s afraid of getting cooties is hardly out of character. But Dean leaving his family out in the cold? Nah. That’s not his style.”

“I know,” Cas says, and it comes out reverently.

Charlie clears her throat. “He um… Dean had to die, didn’t he?” she asks, all traces of humor gone from her voice. “Because of the Mark and stuff? I’ve done some research, but this isn’t really the kind of stuff you can find on the web. I got a general gist, that’s about it.”

Cas nods even though she can’t see him. “The rogue angels back in May,” he confirms. “I uh…” he coughs, his throat uncooperative. “I didn’t get there in time. I didn’t have enough grace to heal the wound.”

“Shit,” Charlie breathes out. “Oh, shit.”

Cas says nothing, lets her process.

Finally, she sniffs.

“A cure?” she asks, her voice watery, “When I was researching I didn’t see anything about a cure.”

“A work in progress,” Cas says, thinking of Crowley with a surge of simmering fury.

“What has he done?” Charlie asks, sounding like she’s bracing herself for the worst. “There was the store clerk in Oklahoma City. The hunters he tossed around. What else?”

Cas shrugs helplessly, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I have to be honest, Charlie, I’m more worried about him than the world at large at the moment. The Mark, it’s- it’s consuming him from the inside out. This descent is personal, internal. He’s terrified of himself.”

Charlie groans, low. “Cas, I love Dean like a brother. But we can’t ignore the fact that he’s not only a danger to himself, but to others. If it hasn’t already happened, he could hurt someone real bad. The permanent kind of hurt.”

“I understand,” Cas says, more to appease Charlie than anything.

“What about Sam?” she asks. “Don’t tell me Sam’s still fucked off to nowhere and doesn’t even know his brother is still alive.”

“I’ve been trying to locate him,” Cas says. “He’s proved himself hard to find.”

“Typical fucking Sam,” she says. “Jesus, do you guys just blindfold yourselves and throw darts at a pie chart to figure out what your next personal crisis is going to be?”

“… no?”

Charlie grumbles under her breath, exasperated. “Well, look Cas, I’m not going to be much help with the eons old Mark on Dean’s arm, but what I can do is find you a location for Sam, and find you a location for Dean, and we can go from there, okay?”

Cas closes his eyes in gratitude. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“Don’t thank me till we’re on the other side of this thing. You should have asked for help weeks ago, Cas.”

“I know.”

“And I can hear it in your voice. Don’t blame yourself for this… Well. Okay. Blame yourself for not telling me when you should have. But that’s it. ” At Cas’ insistent silence, she sighs again. “Cas fucking Winchester,” she grouses, before hanging up the phone.

Almost immediately, Cas receives a text from her that simply reads:

**hang in there**

***

“We’re worried about you,” Hannah tells him.

“I couldn’t tell,” Cas says dryly. He’s got his phone to his ear as he puts gas in the Continental, somewhere in eastern Nebraska. There’s a wheat field across the road, and not much else. A rusted tractor from another era sits back from the fence like a hulking red scarecrow. Down the road somewhat is a faded billboard for _Ralph’s Roadside Diner: The Best Pie in the Midwest!_ Cracks run through it, the coloring mostly leeched out by now. Even as a fully powered up angel, Cas wouldn’t be able to guess how many storms that thing has weathered.

He smiles idly at the pie, though. A little sad. A little fond.

“Some of our brothers and sisters are worried you aren’t committed to the cause,” she says, as if this is the first time she’s voiced such concerns. The reception out here isn’t great. Hannah’s voice fades in and out just the same as the preachers on the radio who scream about hellfire.

“I’m as committed as I need to be,” Cas says as the nozzle clicks beneath his palm. He puts it back in its holder, rolling his eyes as a drop of gasoline falls onto his pant leg. “That’s always been the deal.” He screws the cap back in, closing the cover. He leans back against the car.

“You’ve been gone almost the same amount of time you’ve been here,” Hannah says. “You say you’re out gathering intelligence, but we have yet to see any.”

“Do you know how hard it is to pin Metatron down if he doesn’t want to be pinned?” Cas asks, unjustly annoyed that Hannah is accusing him of not doing the thing he’s not doing.

“I’m aware,” she says curtly. “That’s the whole point of working together to bring him down and end his reign.” She pauses, and Cas can hear the uncertainty over the phone.

“Just say it, Hannah,” he sighs.

“You can’t let your allegiance to the Winchesters compromise our goal,” she says. “You can’t, Castiel.”

Sidestepping the accusation, Cas says, “You know the Winchesters want to stop Metatron as well, right? For once, angelic agendas and human agendas align.”

“They’re a distraction,” Hannah says.

“You knew what you were getting into when you came to me,” Cas says, again dancing around it. “I told you I had other obligations.”

“The Winchesters are not obligations,” Hannah stresses, “They’re _blights_.”

Cas pushes him off his car in frustration, getting in the front seat and slamming the door too hard.

“What do you expect to gain from this conversation?” he snaps, shoving his key into the ignition as he holds his phone between his ear and shoulder. “I’d like to believe my relationship with the Winchesters and my relationship to my brothers and sisters don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Though history seems to be trying to tell me otherwise.”

“There are rumors,” Hannah blurts out, and then makes a frustrated sound, like she didn’t mean to say anything at all.

Cas steels himself.

“Humans do like to gossip,” he says neutrally.

“I’m not talking about humans,” she says. “Word is going around that Dean Winchester is possessed by a demon. Or… _is_ a demon, if that’s somehow become possible.”

Cas rubs a hand over his jaw.

“And?” he finally asks.

“If this rumor proved to be true,” Hannah starts slowly, “I’d say that counted as a significant distraction.”

“It probably would be,” Cas allows as he finally turns the car on. Someone has pulled up behind him, so he eases out of the spot and then the parking lot, back onto the road. The signal dips in and out. Hannah’s voice crackles down the line.

“We need you here, Castiel,” she says. “With us.”

Cas shakes his head as he stares out the windshield at the gray sky, spread like a blanket across the patchwork farms and fields that make up the majority of this state. Working with the angels gives him purpose. Gives him the chance to do good again, even if he can never equal that out with all the bad he’s done. With Dean he’s been treading water for months, unable to help, unable to make a dent.

Objectively, the choice is simple.

“I’m on my way back,” Cas tells Hannah.

Her response is lost in the static.

***

A week later, Charlie texts him.

 

 

**I found Sam**

 

 

Practically tripping over his own thumbs, Cas texts back.

 

 

**Where? Is he alright? Have you told him?**

Moments later, his phone vibrates.

 

 

**Holed up in some remote go nowhere town in Alaska. He’s fine. He also feels, and this is putting it charitably, like an idiot.**

 

 

A second later, another text pops up.

 

 

**Don’t call. Think he needs to process. I’m gonna go get him and it’s gonna be a long drive home.**

 

 

Cas breathes out long and slow, the relief pulsing through him.

 

 

 **Bring him to the bunker** _ **,** _ Cas responds. **Let me know when you arrive** _ **.** _ After a moment’s hesitation, he adds a **:)** to the end of his message.

 

 

**Even an electronic smile from you is a shocker, Charlie says. I’ll let you know about Dean when I get something.**

 

**Thank you, Charlie.**

Cas slips his phone back into his pocket. On the other side of the room, Hannah gestures for him to come over and join the group of angels gathered around a table. He walks over, and gently maneuvers Hannah away from the group.

“Sam Winchester has been found,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I’m going to see him next week.”

Hannah’s expression is solemn.

“You just got back,” she says.

Cas is already distracted. “You can have the angels back who were searching for him,” he says. “That should make up the difference for now.”

“You’re shirking your duties,” Hannah accuses, blue eyes hard and flinty.

“ _Your_ duties,” Cas snaps, lashing out, unable to help himself. Hannah blinks. “Not mine.”

She shakes her head, almost sadly. “This isn’t going to end well for you, Castiel.”

“At least we agree on something,” Cas says coldly. “This is the end.”

He can feel eyes on them now, the angels at the table their curious onlookers. Frustrated, he puts a hand to Hannah’s elbow, leads her further away. Carefully, so as not to draw any more attention to them, Hannah takes her arm back, though Cas knows she wants to rip it from his grip.

“We are your _family_ ,” she hisses. “This is your duty.” She seems almost surprised at the venom in her own voice, taken aback by the hurt she’s feeling. Cas can see it all over her face. His smile is small and sad, the anger ebbing away from him as quickly as it came.

“You remind me so much of myself,” he says quietly, “When I came to earth to act as Dean Winchester’s guide. Stiff. Righteous. Supposedly impervious to humanity’s many… quirks.”

Hannah purses her lips, but gives up after a moment. Her usually perfect posture subtly bends.

“I’ve been thinking about how you thanked that waitress for weeks,” she admits, gaze flicking between him and the cuff of her blazer. “I didn’t understand. And then,” she puts her hands on her hips, gazing somewhere past him as a far off look crosses her face. “Last week, we were scouting in Wyoming, following a lead on a couple of rogue angels. We stopped at a coffee shop, as a couple of our siblings have developed a taste for it.” A furrow appears between her brows, and Cas well remembers the disaster of trying to introduce Hannah to coffee for the first time. “I lingered outside for a moment, distracted by I-don’t-know-what. Something.” She shakes her head, perturbed. “Either way, as I was entering the shop, there was a another woman-a human woman- on her way out. And I- I held the door open for her?” Her perturbation deepens. “Strategically, it made sense. The doorway was narrow, and had I tried to barge through first, we would have collided. I have no interest in colliding with other bodies, so I stepped back and allowed her through before myself.”

She keeps looking at Cas like he’s supposed to have an explanation for this strange human phenomenon, like she suddenly appeared in another hemisphere between blinks and has to relearn all the local customs. Cas merely shrugs.

“It’s considered common courtesy to hold doors open for others,” he offers. Then adds contemplatively, “Though judging the appropriate distance between you and another person to hold the door for them has proven difficult.”

“No, Castiel,” Hannah shakes her head, her blunt bangs bobbing with the movement. “It’s not the door-holding that was strange.”

“What was it, then?”

Hannah cocks her head at him, gaze quizzical.

“The woman _thanked_ me,” Hannah explains, looking at a complete loss for what to do with this information. “And I felt…” she searches for words. “A small feeling. Pride, maybe.”

“It can feel rewarding when you do something for someone else,” Cas says.

“But I wasn’t doing it for her,” Hannah seems almost desperate for him to understand. “I was only holding that door because it would be quicker for me to enter instead of slamming it in her face.”

“But then you felt good about it,” Cas reminds her.

Hannah shakes her head warily. “I’m not unfamiliar with emotion,” she says. “It’s _human_ emotions that baffle me. Thisvessel that baffles me.” She gestures down at herself, her smart blazer and nice blue jeans. “We weren’t all cut out for the human race, brother.”

Cas’ jaw ticks. He’s suddenly very aware of the blood pulsing under his skin and the beat of his own heart. For the umpteenth time, he wonders if, somewhere deep down, there still might be a flicker of the angel he once was. A mere glowing ember.

He doesn’t know how to mourn himself.

He looks at Hannah solemnly.

“I understand,” he says.

They go back to work.

***

A couple days later, Cas gets a text from Dean. When he sees Dean’s name pop up on his phone screen, he can feel his heart slamming doubletime in his chest. For a full minute, he stares at it in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, afraid to actually read it. Eventually, someone angrily clears their throat behind him since he’s blocking the Corn Flakes, and Cas mutters an apology before walking away and shaking himself out of it. Without ceremony, he opens the text. It’s only one line, and not near what Cas expects.

 

**why were you gonna let me kill you**

 

It takes him a second to realize, and then he remembers.

Vermont. In the parking lot, Dean pushed him against a car and held the Blade to his stomach, and Cas said _do it_. In that moment, in the wind and the rain and with Dean’s black eyes staring directly into his, he truly didn’t care. Would have welcomed it, probably. Would’ve loved for something other than misery to consume him.

 

**moment of weakness.**

He finds a bench just outside the entrance to the grocery store and sinks down onto it, staring at his phone so intently he’s afraid he’s going to burn a hole in it. Not that he has the grace, or the necessary firepower to do so. But since his conversation with Hannah a couple days ago, he’s found himself reattuned to the quirkier aspects of humanity. Strange phrasings and thought patterns and actions. All these things are so small.

Dean texts him back a couple minutes later.

 

**not the first time. fred jones case? wacky cartoon shit remember? what you told me in that motel room.**

Cas doesn’t particularly enjoy thinking about his time under Naomi’s influence, even though he supposes that could count as almost his entire existence. When he does think about it, his chest gets tight and he feels ripples in the tips of his fingers that make things seem unreal.

He tries not to think about it.

 

**yes I remember.**

Almost immediately, Dean texts back.

 

**I need a favor**

Cas lets out a breath, but texts back the truth, regardless.

 

**Anything.**

The next text Dean sends has Cas gripping his phone so hard it almost slides out of his slick grip.

 

**out of the two of us its not you who needs to hit the dirt**

**no** , Cas texts back, **never**.

 

**you said anything**

**not this** , Cas types out.

 

He waits a painful five minutes.

 

**you love me right? then fucking do it**

Cas can feel people looking at him as they enter and exit the store, but he ignores them.

 

 **you can’t keep using my feelings for you against me** , he sends. Then he types out **I would never hurt you** , but has to backspace when he realizes that isn’t true. Will never be true.  

**you can’t find a cure. at least find a way to keep me dead. it wont let me do it myself. Itll bring me back I can feel it.**

Cas drops his head into his hands.

 

**even if I couldn’t find a cure, I would never do it.**

He waits a long time for the next text, can almost feel Dean simmering on the other end of the line, wherever he is. Finally, when Dean texts back and Cas reads it, he gets into his car and drives a hundred miles before he really realizes what he’s doing. His phone sits heavy in his pocket and he doesn’t respond.

 

**you almost did once. in the crypt**

***

Near the end of September, Dean gets clocked in the jaw by an escaping werewolf. The hit rings through him like wind through chimes, makes him briefly see stars. He manages to gun it down eventually, silver bullets piercing its chest and red blood pooling under it where it falls. They’re far enough off the grid it’s unlikely the shots will be called in immediately, if at all. Dean tracked this thing out into the boonies, north enough in Minnesota that he may as well be in Canada. There’s a tiny logging town just under ten miles east, but Dean’s in dense forest. More than enough pine needles to absorb the sound of a couple bullets. The road he parked off is a rundown two-way that’s lucky to see one or two lost motorists per day. It’s almost 2am when he finally kills the werewolf, makes sure to toe it onto its back with his boot, double-checking that he hit the heart. The wolf is a young guy, probably in his mid-twenties. Pale, gingery, looks like a total nerd. Dean’s seen cases like this before, when the skinny kids who were picked on in high school get a taste of the supernatural.

Suffice to say, it never ends well.

More obligatory than anything these days, Dean slips the Blade out of the waistband of jeans, hefts its weight in his right hand. Moonlight glints dully off the Blade as he stares at it, the ache in the back of his jaw starting a dull, throbbing tattoo beneath the surface. He can already feel the bruise blossoming on his cheek. He runs a calloused thumb over the bumps of the teeth on the blade, feeling the ridges catch on his skin. Unconsciously, he runs his tongue along the line of his own teeth.

“Sorry pal,” he murmurs, quiet enough that not even the nearby trees hear him as he thrusts the Blade into the werewolf’s heart. It makes a soft squelching sound, doesn’t hit any bone. Blood dribbles up and around the wound, sluggish.

Dean hardly gets a rush from it anymore, but knows instinctively that he’s not allowed to stop. It’s almost become rote by now. Routine is the release in his gut as the Blade slithers into the werewolf’s insides.

He couldn’t work without it, not anymore, but living with it is hardly a reward. Treading water instead of swimming for shore.

He buries the werewolf in a shallow grave between the trees, and begins his trek back to the POS of the week, an old Civic that’s definitely seen better days.

 The night is frigid enough that Dean can see his breath on the exhale. He’s wearing a red plaid jacket, the same kind lumberjacks wear. Nicked it from a bar further south on his way up when he heard the weather report for the first major cold snap of the season. With his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets and the Blade hot against his back, he tries to ignore the ache in his jaw, in his back teeth. It feels like there’s something undulating in there, like something crawled into his tooth and died. His face stings from the punch, but it’s nothing compared to his jaw. The pain has been following him for months, but he’s ignored it time and time again. It’s insistent though, knocking and knocking and knocking at him, chipping away at him like a sculptor at their block of stone.

Dean’s been taught by multiple people at various points in his life that emotional pain is merely something to be sucked up. Hardly an affliction. Never a state of being. It’s stored up and bottled and pushed down to make more room for shit on top. Unfortunately, that learned habit managed to bleed out in his response to physical pain as well. Part of it comes simply from the job- no sprained wrist is going to stop him decking a guy if he needs to- but part of it comes from the need to run himself into the ground, to poke at the obscenity until it bursts or bleeds. That climax of pain has jolted him out of more stupors than he can count (more than it’s put him _into_ a stupor, at least). When he was about fourteen, he turned an ankle while chasing a fleeing Chupacabra, trying to herd it towards where John was lying in wait to ambush it. The burst of pain had momentarily whited out his vision, but he used that surge of pain-induced adrenaline to push himself even further, running on an ankle that would eventually swell up to the size of a grapefruit.

It was his own way of ensuring there was literally no further he could go, nothing more he could do.  If the physical pain wasn’t actively keeling him over, then he still had more in him. And then some more. And then some more. Sam’s given him more than one bitchy look over the years whenever he refuses a patch up, has threatened more than once to get the needle and dental floss out in his sleep if Dean starts bleeding all over his bedsheets.

He doesn’t actively seek out the pain, but he doesn’t fight it when it comes. Somewhere deep down, he knows he uses the physical pain as the cork that holds all the bullshit emotional stuff inside, that if he allowed himself to deal with the physical pain like a normal person, then the trouble would come flowing out in torrents and never, ever stop. He would drown in it.

This pain needles at him, and this pain grates at him, but he keeps going. Stumbles through the dark, cold woods in the middle of the night, blood sticky in between his fingers and underneath his nails. Every step is jarring, rattling his tooth inside his head like a lone penny in a piggy bank. He hisses the burn out through his lips, feels the shape of the Blade on his back start to leave an outline of sweat that starts hot and almost immediately turns cold, skittering up his spine and across the sensitive flesh of his lower back.

He scrapes his hands along the rough surface of the trees, doing his best to stay in a straight line. Wood splinters under his nails but he ignores it, shuffling across cold and spongey dirt and stumbling over crumbling, mossy logs.

Starbusts of pain bloom in his mouth, taste vibrant and stark on his tongue. He can’t clench his teeth, though they start to chatter in the cold. His top molars kissing his bottom molars is like jackhammers, reverberating through his head and then traveling down every nerve ending in his body, springing sharp pain through every route it can find. Desperate, he stuffs his freezing hands into his mouth and tries to pull at the tooth, push it, pry it, anything he can think of to maybe, somehow, alleviate the ache. But the touch does nothing but make him cry out, completely involuntary tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He removes his hands, blinks the heat away from his face.

Soldiers on until he hits the cold metal body of his car, practically collapses into the seat behind the wheel. Cranks the heat, slams on the gas. Drives so haphazardly he’s practically straddling the solid yellow line in the middle of the road. The tires swerve beneath him, though he swears he’s not moving the wheel.

The drive that ten miles east is agonizing. His tooth and his jaw are both throbbing in tandem, a constant drum beat in his head. The heat is turned up too high, and he can feel himself sweating through his layers. The Blade sears his skin.

The town he eventually makes it to is a tiny little thing called Charming, hardly an accidental ink blot on the map. There’s one, maybe two streets of small businesses, the residential areas fanned out around them.

As he rolls into Charming, clipping a mailbox, Dean has the presence of mind to be grateful this isn’t the kind of town where people stay out until 3am.

He judders to a stop outside the local mom and pop hardware store because it was the first thing that came to mind, falling out of the car and digging through his pockets for the lockpicking kit he nicked a couple months back. Towns like this haven’t caught up to the 21st century yet, so despite Dean’s shaking hands and cold sweats, he manages to pop the lock in a couple minutes.

As for the security system blinking at him just inside the door, Dean knows he doesn’t have the patience or the time. He smashes it with his fist until he’s satisfied it’s not going to start blaring, then quickly makes his way through the store as he hunts down what he’s after. There’s only a few aisles, so it doesn’t take long.

The pliers are rubber handled and mean-looking.

With the desperation of a man dying of thirst taking his first sip of water, Dean falls to his knees in the middle of aisle two, the linoleum not doing much for his landing. He didn’t turn the overhead lights on, so all he has to work with is the slant of moonlight coming in through the large front window. He thrusts desperate fingers into his mouth, his grip slipping on his teeth as he locates the exact spot he’s going to have to deal with. As soon as he taps it, fireworks blast in his head and his vision goes blurry. He falls forward, palms pressed flat to the ground as he breathes hard, chest heaving. He tightens his grip on the pliers. With his other hand, he reaches behind himself to slide the Blade out of his waistband, grip death-tight. It only loosens by inches. He presses the tip of his nose to the cold floor for a moment, gathering his constitution.

He knows this is the Mark. He knows it’s been tightening its grip on him since the first moment he woke up with black eyes. Can feel it squeezing around his windpipe, his heart, his mind. His soul.

Cut off one head, three more grow back. He knows he knows he knows. He just needs it to go away, however momentarily. He needs the respite. Just for a second.

He sits up, inserts the pliers into his mouth. The metal is cold against his tongue. Another burst of pain flares up when he accidentally taps the end of the pliers against his tooth, but he rides it out. Clamps the pliers on either side of his tooth, making sure to have both hands on the handle so his grip doesn’t slip.

He breathes hard through his nose, tries to tell himself it’s just like a kid tying a string around a loose tooth and attaching the string to a door you’re about to slam.  He never tried it as a kid, got most of his baby teeth knocked out one way or another. But he pretends all the same.

He yanks.

If possible, the pain multiples exponentially. A harsh, deep cracking sound vibrates through his head and he thinks he’s going to pass out. The first spurts of blood start dribbling out of his mouth. He lets go with one hand, screams bloody murder into his sleeve, bites his own arm hard enough he breaks skin. Everything tastes like blood.

He has to do it again. His face is wet with blood and sweat, and his hands are shaking. He steels himself as best he can, the pain still shooting through him, an unceasing, torrential rain. He promises himself it’ll all be over soon.

He brings his other hand back to the grip, reinserts the pliers into his mouth. The linoleum is slippery under him now, and when he glances down at it he sees the Blade glinting in the moonlight. The teeth along its curve smile at him, distorted.

He closes his eyes and he pulls again. Hard enough that spots dance behind his eyelids. Hard enough he can feel the tooth disconnect from its roots, can feel as they snap and break, lying listless against his gums like the roots of an uprooted tree.

He drops the pliers, and his tooth drops with them with a tiny, innocuous skitter. Blood dribbles from the center of his bottom lip, pooling on the floor below. He lets out a heaving sob, holding a shaking hand up to try and catch at least some of the blood.

The tooth is gone, probably fallen under one of the shelves. He’s terrified to look at it, afraid it’ll be a black and burnt thing like that chip he lost a couple weeks ago.

Using the shelves to steady him like a cane, he heaves himself up off the floor. He’s lightheaded, barely remembers to pick up the Blade. Relief is swooping through him along with the very grounding pain of the gap in his mouth, but he can’t tell if that’s adrenaline knocking everything else out or if he actually managed to get ahead of the Mark for once.

He hobbles out of the shop, and the welcome bell above the door tinkles cheerily above him.

As he drives away from Charming, he can see lights turning on in the distance in his rear view mirror.

***

Dean ends up in a motel a state away, his shirt (and pretty much everything else) completely blood soaked. He tells the horrified desk clerk that he just had a wicked nosebleed (“All that dry air up here really puts a chip in the plaster, y’know?”) and quickly holes up in a dingy, badly lit motel room that doesn’t let him see the full extent of the damage. The _physical_ damage, anyway. On the inside, he’s still on that upswing of absurd relief, as if what he just did was on par with paying a particularly stressful bill, or getting an appointment he was worried about out of the way. Instead of yanking a tooth out his head with a pair of stolen pliers in the middle of a tiny Midwestern hardware store.

He lies back on the ugly duvet of one of the beds, holding a bag of ice from the ice machine to his jaw, eyes closed. What this was supposed to accomplish, he has no idea. All he knows is he needed that relief, needed the kind of cold turkey only an act like that can buy.

He wants to text Cas, but what can he say? _Just pulled a tooth out! Hope the tooth fairy comes and leaves a quarter._

For the first time in a long time, he has the sudden, painful urge to see his brother. He wants to see Sam. Because if Sam is there, that means everything is okay. That’s been Dean’s measure of “okay” since he was four years old. He wants Sam here and Sam isn’t here, may never be here again.

Dean remembers how he rejected Sam when he was hooked on demon blood, terrified and scared to death he was going to lose his baby brother. Told him he should be hunting him, like a common monster. A common freak.

And here he is, not just hooked on demon blood, but the real deal. Black eyes, weakened by salt and iron. Not even possessed. Did everything he did under the complete and utter acknowledgment of free will. Hurt the people he hurt, spiralled down so far into himself he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to claw his way back out.

What would Sam think of that.

His jaw aches. A horrific choking sound escapes him, dry and scared and desperate.

What would his dad think? His _mom_?

Despair sinks into him like wet concrete settling, drying so quickly he’s stuck fast, paralyzed by it. The Blade, ever present against his torso, is almost a comfort. A constant. He pulls it out and holds it to his chest, staring at the ceiling as he idly runs his fingers over the curves of the blade. The teeth bump against him, and he rubs at them, one by one. He briefly touches his tongue to the hole in the back of his mouth, welcoming the concentration of the pain.

There are water stains on the ceiling, and he can hear the rumblings of cars on the road outside. He can just barely make out voices from another room, though they must be at least a couple walls away. In the bathroom, the plumbing gurgles occasionally.   

He hears these things only intermittently, barely catalogues them even on an unconscious level. He takes the hilt of the Blade, holds it above his chest and lets it dangle there. Watches the tip shake slightly. On his arm, the Mark tingles.

It would be the noble thing to do, he thinks. The greatest good.

He always figured he’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere, anyway. This motel is almost better than that. At least this way he gets to choose how it happens.

He told Cas he wasn’t sure it would work, but here, now, with a blade pointed at his heart. He wonders. Hopes, even.

Suicidal tenancies tend to run in the blood of most hunters, but even he’ll admit that his own run deeper than an insatiable urge to maim and murder anything that looks at him funny. There is no thrill for him, no kamikaze adrenaline rush. The desire to end his own life isn’t even a desire, really. Just a willingness to not exist anymore. Acceptable collateral damage.

Selling his soul for Sam, offering himself up to Michael. At the time, he didn’t see another way. Or maybe he did, and he was just looking for an excuse. The equivalent of walking across the street without looking both ways.

He wonders where he’ll go. Where do demons go when they get stuck by Ruby’s knife? Or when angels find themselves on the wrong end of one of their own blades? Dean’s almost glad. He’d rather be gone for good than get stuck with either shitty dimension. By this point, heaven and hell are all the same level of bad to him.

He’d rather feed a forest. Feed the worms. Anything that’s hungry and doesn’t mind their meat a little tough. He imagines a tree sprouting from his mouth, flowers that grow from under his fingernails.

Cas is into gardens and shit, right? Sam too. Maybe they’d see the poetry in it.

His arm is starting to ache. He brings up his other hand to steady it. His heart pounds and pounds away.

It might not even work.

It might work.

A gun to the head might be easier. Or wrists slit in a bathtub. Even jumping off somewhere high enough.

But maybe Dean needs the satisfaction of pushing a blade through his chest. Needs to know that pain, that exertion came from a blade that has hurt so many others. Wants to feel his lung deflate, the scrape of bone against his ribcage. The pitter patter of his heart as it pitter patters its last. One that should have ceased to beat a long time ago.

He tightens his grip. Swallows hard.

His jaw still aches as he plunges the Blade deep into his own chest.

***

Hundreds of miles away, Castiel is woken by the meager remnants of his grace screaming.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean wakes up in a pool of his own blood.

He groans, rolls out of a sticky bed, over something sharp, and lands on all fours. The rough motel carpet scratches at his palms.

He stands, stretching until something that probably shouldn’t pop, pops. The identity of the sharp thing he just rolled over is revealed when he glances at the Blade, just as covered in blood as everything else nearby. His shirt is crunchy with it. There’s a very obvious sized hole in the chest.

The Blade gets put in the stopped sink to soak, the sheets balled up and thrown into the dumpster out back when he’s sure no one is looking. He can’t do much about the mattress. Flips it and hopes no one notices for a while, at least. Wants to get out of here with as little noise as possible.

He showers, turns the water as hot as it can go. Red drips down his body in rivulets, the coppery tang in the air disappearing down the drain along with the evidence. Dean’s not sure he can do much about the new scar on his chest. It complements the one on his abdomen, though. A matching set.

He scrubs at his skin until it’s pink, until the water starts to chill. He didn’t think the Blade would work. Not really.

But he wonders, as he steps out of the shower and wipes a streak of steam away from the mirror. He pulls back his lips, bares his teeth, and there’s still some blood stuck in the cracks, spinach stuck in his teeth after lunch. There should probably be a bruise on his jaw coinciding with the tooth he pulled, or at least a mark from the werewolf’s hit, but there’s nothing.

He wonders if he died just long enough for the Mark to sink its claws even further into him. He looks at his right arm, now covered in a fishnet of angry red veins. They’ve started crawling up past his elbow now, tendrils that wrap around the bottom of his bicep, squeezing.

He looks the same, but he’s been burned through. Set on fire by the Blade piercing his own body. Realizes now this was what the Mark had been waiting for all along, guiding him gently down any number of paths towards one pre-determined end.

Dean doesn’t believe in fate, but he believes in what he can see. And what he sees is lack of a way out. A grip that has him in a perpetual stranglehold.

What else is there to do when you have a noose around a neck that can’t be broken?

Like so many other times in his life, like the coward he is and always will be, Dean gives in. Finally says the _yes_ that has been on the tip of his tongue since the apocalypse. Every dead angel must be spinning in their graves.

He grips the bathroom sink hard, forces himself to watch as his eyes slip to black. Rips himself away, only to grab the Blade off the desk in the main room. Sits down on the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly. He holds the Blade in his left hand, forces himself to stop shaking. He didn’t know he knew how to do this, but it comes naturally. Instinctively. Maybe his years in hell weren’t about punishment, but preparation. For this moment.

Not for the demon he was, but for the demon he would become.

He closes his eyes when he presses the tip of the Blade to the Mark. Sensation floods through him, an icy, sweet burn that has him gasping. The roots on his arm writhe like snakes in a pit, and he watches as they curl around him, first his shoulder, then his chest, then his left side. He doesn’t notice how they shy away from a certain spot on his left shoulder. He hunches over on the bed, pushes his weight forward and staggers across the room, drops both palms flat onto the desk as he looks into the streaky mirror hanging above it. The snakes slither up his throat, and he swears he can feel them on his skin, under it. They curl under his jaw, a cluster of them gathering near the spot where he pulled the tooth. They crawl up his cheeks, across his lips, burst in the blood veins in his eyes.

He watches in horror, panic rising in him like a storm that refuses to break. His hands shake, his body trembles, he can’t believe the noises coming out of his mouth are actually made by him.

Amongst the pain, something abruptly flares so brightly in his chest he actually gasps, and the red in his vision momentarily recedes. It’s something beautiful and glowing and _familiar_ , somehow, like looking at old family photographs from before he was born. For a second, it drives away all of the pain, all of the suffering. Pushes it out so the only thing inside is light, is warmth. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he struggles to hold onto it, the beautiful thing.

As quickly as it comes, however, it starts to fade. Floods out like an overflowing palm full of water, trickling through the cracks in his fingers. He can feel it tucking itself away, somewhere deep down inside him, where almost immediately it’s set upon by the Mark, prepared to eradicate anything it identifies as a threat. 

Dean mourns the loss of the beautiful thing, despite not being able to remember it.

Darkness swoops in over him at high tide, carries him out to sea.

***

Cas drives north and the only thing he has to go on is gut instinct. He was awoken in the middle of the night, grace burning in his veins in a way he didn’t even realize it could anymore. It had been dormant for so long, Cas was almost convinced it had gone entirely, snuffed out like a dying candle flame.

It stayed only fleetingly, retreating back to wherever it likes to hide once Cas had finally gotten the picture.

Something is wrong. With Dean. The terror hasn’t stopped flooding through him since he woke up, followed him as he yanked on a pair of jeans that are too big and an old t-shirt of Dean’s with a hole near the hemline. Followed him into the car. Followed him across state lines.

Something is taking him this way. Something driving him north.

He doesn’t understand why he knows. Just that he does. Just that it terrifies him. The same terror that his him practically flattening his foot to the floor as he drives. The same terror that has his jaw clenched and his knuckles white on the wheel.

The cold starts to seep in as he drives and the hour deepens. The sky turns pitch black and he can smell autumn in the air, leaking into the car from the outside. It’s a fresh, crisp smell with the faintest tinge of rotting leaves underneath, and it reminds him of a time he doesn’t like to think about, when he stood in Lisa Braeden’s backyard, invisible, as he watched Dean rake leaves.

He refuses to get sucked into that memory. He has to focus on the here and now, because here and now, Dean is in trouble.

His gut takes him to Minnesota. He doesn’t arrive until midday, but the feeling has refused to leave him. As he pulls up to the dumpy motel in the middle of nowhere, he knows he’s in the right place. Is following the trail to whatever horrible thing happened to Dean here. There’s only one other car in the parking lot, an old station wagon covered in dust with a front tire missing. Cas’ stomach clenches when he looks around and spots no other cars, but he shoves past the feeling, storms into the tiny, shoddy office.

A bored looking clerk is sitting behind the desk, and he looks up at Cas’ arrival. Before he can even open his mouth, Cas is already talking, already demanding.

“I’m looking for a man, mid-thirties, green eyes. Checked in last night, probably.”

The clerk raises an eyebrow.

“Dude, I can’t just-”

Cas sighs in frustration, and pulls a gun from the bunker out of his waistband, pointing it at the guy, who immediately puts his hands in the air. His face goes white.

“I apologize,” Cas says brusquely, “But I don’t have time for this. Your parking lot is empty. He must have been one of your only guests last night. He’s a memorable person, trust me. And tell me where the fuck he is.”

“Jesus Christ,” the clerk wheezes, “16, he was in room 16, Jesus _Christ_.”

Cas thrusts the muzzle of the gun upward.

“Get up. Take me there.”

When the clerk stands up, Cas snaps, “Bring the key.”

He follows the clerk to the room, keeping the gun on his back if only to expedite the process. The guy is breathing hard, has to try a couple times before he can get the key in the lock. As soon as the door clicks open, Cas shoves past him, hoping against hope that Dean is somewhere on the other side, alive and in one piece.

Instead, the room is gutted. There’s a trail of blood drops all over the floor, mostly concentrated between the bed and the bathroom. The mattress is completely bare, stripped of sheets that are nowhere to be seen. The desk chair is overturned.

He practically runs to the bathroom, and has to put a hand on the towel rack to steady himself when he sees the streaks of red in the shower.

He re-enters the main room on wobbly legs, his chest caving in on itself. Inarticulate rage wells up inside him, at his failed grace, at his failure to follow his gut quickly enough, at Dean. But mostly, at himself.

Before he can stop himself, he sweeps the lamp off the nightstand so hard it flies across the room, shattering against the far wall. The clerk, still in the doorway, flinches out of the way.

“ _FUCK_ ,” Cas shouts. He stands in the middle of the desolate, ugly room, chest heaving. Trying to regain his bearings, coax that feeling back up again.

“Where is the nearest town?” he demands of the clerk, “How far?”

“W-west,” he stammers, “About half an hour.”

Cas shoves his gun back down his pants, pulling a wallet out of his back pocket. He grabs a handful of twenties and shoves them into the clerk’s chest as he brushes past him.

“For the room,” he says curtly. “And your troubles.”

He drives west. Tries to convince himself that’s where his gut is taking him.

***

Dean is going to kill Abaddon.

It’s why he got the Mark in the first place, and Abaddon is a big fish. A big get. A big first meal for a newly rejuvenated demon.

He feels the occasional tug in the opposite direction, but he ignores it. This is a mission. This is a purpose.

He slashes his way through an oft-demon frequented bar in North Dakota, pulling out his favorite old tricks from the rack. He prods and twists and turns until at last, an Abaddon supporter drops her last known location, somewhere north of Cheyenne. Dean thrusts the Blade into his stomach, leaves while the corpses are still smoking.

***

West leads Cas across the border into North Dakota, where he finds himself walking among the bodies in a rundown bar. It’s out of the way enough that the authorities haven’t been called yet, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

He feels no sympathy for the demons, but he looks on in discomfort at the mutilation of the vessels. Neither Winchester has ever been particularly delicate when killing demons (and neither has Cas, for the record), but even so, he finds it all very hard to swallow. Cas recognizes these slices. Has seen Dean make them before, on the people he tortured in hell.

Bile rises in Cas’ throat.

***

In Cheyenne, Dean finds a cluster of demons where he was told Abaddon should be. He rinses and repeats the moves from the bar, is almost disappointed when a demon talks before he can even get to the good part.

“Colorado,” the demon promises, choking on his own blood.

“ _Where_ ,” Dean demands. When the demon tells him, he chops his tongue off.

***

Cas follows Dean and his corpses for a week. Cheyenne, then a cabin in southwestern Colorado, then an abandoned shopping center in Nebraska, then South Dakota, then Montana, then Idaho.

It has to be Abaddon. Dean’s only been killing demons.

Charlie and Sam are tying up loose ends in Alaska. Cas tells them he’ll meet them in Lebanon once he finishes up some things with the angels.

Hannah has been leaving him messages, but Cas doesn’t even listen to them, let alone call her back.

***

“Dean Winchester,” Abaddon says when he finally finds her in a penthouse suite of a swanky downtown hotel in Helena, Montana. Apparently she circled back this way after she heard about Dean tearing through her ranks in South Dakota. She looks him up and down, smirking. “I’ve heard the rumors. You’ve got everyone in quite the tizzy.”

Dean flicks his eyes to black. “So it’s not the flames of the hell that have been making my ears burn, then.”

She takes a sip of wine, remaining seated in a comfortable lounge chair. She’s in all black, her red hair perfectly coiffed and her lips perfectly red.

“Not quite yet, it would seem,” she says daintily, seemingly unperturbed. Though Dean doesn’t miss how her gaze travels to the Blade curled tight in his hand. She crosses her legs. “So how’d you find me?”

Dean gestures around at the lavish room.

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

The smirk is back. “What, you didn’t like me signing for these digs as Josie and the Pussycats? Figured you of all people would appreciate it.”

“I’m finding it hard to appreciate much these days, to be honest with you,” Dean says.

Abaddon nods, gesturing to his outfit. “That I can see. I like the beard though. Very rugged.”

Dean runs his hands down his whiskers, smiling emptily. He drops the Blade to his side, walking across the lush carpet. There’s a desk polished to a high sheen that he runs his fingers across.

“I came here to kill you,” he tells her. “I’m going to kill you.”

She tilts her head, accepting his words. She puts down her wine glass on the table beside her, standing up and brushing herself off.  

“I figured this wasn’t a social call.” She gestures to the Blade. “Who let you play with the Big Boy toys?”

“Cain’s version of a fruit basket.”

Abaddon chuckles, though her eyes shine without mirth. She shakes her head as she starts to walk, and Dean moves with her. They circle each other slowly, Dean’s heavy tread sinking into the carpet beneath him.

“Ah, that old cranky bastard. I’ve been meaning to shove a beehive up his ass for a while now, since he seem to love them so much.”

“I’ll happily kill him after I’m done with you.”

Her smile is wide and feral.

“Got a taste for it, did you?”

“I’m here to do a job,” Dean says, unconvincingly if Abaddon’s expression is anything to go by. She _tsks_.

“Oh, honey. That Blade. The Mark I assume you’re sporting. They’re going to chew you up and spit you out.”

“Good thing I like a little teeth then, huh?”

“How far do you think that bravado’s going to get you?” She asks, jutting her chin up. She zips up her leather jacket and continues to circle. “You’re giving it exactly what it wants by coming after me.”

“It wants what I want,” Dean says.

“You want what _it_ wants,” Abaddon corrects.

Dean twirls the Blade in his hand, then points it, business end, at her. “You know you’re going to lose,” he observes, raising his eyebrows. “This whole trying to talk me down thing?” He shakes his head. “Desperate move.”

“Oh, we’ll see,” Abaddon says, and rushes him.

The fight is brief. Dean wins.

He thought he would feel different afterwards, with his purpose served.

He just feels empty.

***

Cas hears the reports about the red headed woman found dead in Helena. He doesn’t have to look far to find a demon who will confirm for him that it was their leader. 

***

Cas summons Crowley in a seedy back alleyway, and he takes so long to show up Cas doesn’t think he’s coming at all.

When he finally does, he leans against the dirty brick wall by a dumpster and wrinkles his nose.

“Abaddon is dead,” Cas says briskly. “Ask around. Cite my sources if you want.”

Crowley breathes out, stares at his breath visible in the air.

“Oh, you’re perfectly reliable, Castiel,” he says blithely, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I could hear the underworld celebrating as soon as it happened.”

“Your contingent, you mean,” Cas says.

“Eh,” Crowley shrugs. “Tomato to-mah-to, right?”

“Fruit has nothing to do with this.”

Crowley wags a finger at him. “Cheeky little devil.”

“Where’s the cure for Dean,” Cas says. “Abaddon is dead. Give me the cure.”

“Cas, dear. Did you forget the second part of our little bargain?”

“You can have my grace anytime. Dean needs the cure now.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, are you trying to appeal to my better nature?” He pats down his pockets, shrugs. “Goodness me. I must have misplaced it somewhere between the deepest pits of hell and this rank back alley that smells of urine.”

“Abaddon is a down payment. Get me the cure as a show of good faith and I give you my grace.”

Crowley hawks a laugh. “You’ve been watching too much American television. In the real world, the one with the biggest dick tells the one with the smallest dick how things work. Abaddon plus your grace equals a cure for dearest Dean-o.”

Cas studies Crowley for a long time. Takes in his portly shape, his black overcoat and the stubble on his jowls. Knows that just beneath the surface is a writhing cesspool of black and red.

“You were never going to get a cure for Dean,” Cas says flatly.

Crowley puts a hand over his heart.

“You wound me. And if you recall, I wasn’t the one who reneged on that one tiny little souls thing a couple years back. My roots are in the crossroads, mate. My word is my bond.”

  Cas shakes his head, taking a step into Crowley’s space. His nose wrinkles involuntarily at the whiff of sulphur he gets, but he hardens his gaze. He doesn’t have the lightning crackle of his grace to intimidate Crowley this time, but he watches Crowley’s jaw tighten all the same.

“You are a snivelling, slimy grotesquery that lives in the darkness beneath the world,” Cas says quietly, tone skirting on the edge of black. “You are simple detritus, suckling on the teat of your betters. The world is changing, Crowley, and your kind is getting squeezed out. Slowly but surely, they’re letting the light in, and cockroaches like yourself are left scurrying away into the rapidly disappearing shadowy corners.” Cas smiles coldly. “You’re small fry, Crowley. Your word may be your bond, but your word is shit.” He pokes Crowley in the chest with his index finger. “Deal’s off. I’ll save Dean myself, without the sulphur.” He turns, starting to walk away. Over his shoulder he calls, “That promise I made you, though? Well. My word is my bond.”

 ***

Dean’s in a bar in... Somewhere. He knows he’s in Montana, at least. He’s drinking the strong shit when Cas shows up, sliding across from him in the back corner booth. The lighting in here is so bad Dean can hardly see him, barely lit up by a sputtering neon sign on the wall advertising Bud Lite. What he can see, though, looks like hell.

“I thought you were dead,” is the first thing Cas says to him. There are a million words beneath those simple five, but Dean ignores them. He spreads his hands before downing a shot.

“And yet here I am.” He points a finger at Cas. “And here you are. How did you find me?”

For some reason, Cas hesitates in his answer.

“I just… did.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, sitting back and eyeing Cas suspiciously.

“There’s no ‘just did’ in this line of work,” he says.

“This isn’t a line of work for me. This is my life,” Cas says tiredly. Without asking, he reaches across the table, snags the beer Dean ordered along with his shot, and takes a couple long swigs, the lines of his throat pulling taut. Dean fails not to notice.

Cas puts the now almost-empty bottle down with a dull thud, sliding it in a trail of condensation back to Dean’s side of the table.

“It’s not like you didn’t leave a trail,” he says. “Massacred demons. Always subtle.”

Dean picks up the bottle now, points the neck at Cas. “I’m a subtle fucking guy,” he says before draining the last dregs. When he’s done, he watches Cas watch the corner of his mouth, where a drop of beer has settled. 

“Wanna lick it off?” Dean challenges, and Cas’ expression goes dark. In the terrible lighting, the circles under his eyes look pitch black, like shadows lost under street lamps. Mostly just to piss him off, Dean slowly catches the stray drop of beer on the tip of his tongue, leisurely drawing it back into his mouth. Cas determinedly looks away, but Dean how it goes. Knows how to look one way while really looking the other. He’s been doing it for years.

When he briefly licks his lips afterward, drumming his fingers on the rim of his empty shot glass, Cas shoots him a laser focused glare, body gone stiff.

“What do you get out of this?” he snaps, his tone cold, though it can barely mask the hurt that’s doing its damnedest to bleed through. “What good is it doing either of us?”

Dean sits back, resting an arm across the top of the empty booth beside him. He considers Cas.

“What good does anything do anyone?” he asks.

Cas scoffs, a mean, harsh sound. “Don’t pedal that philosophical nonsensical bullshit at me,” he says. “I came from the species that made the majority of that shit up. I know when something means nothing.” For a moment, it all seems to crash down on him. Hits him hard enough that he drops his head into his hands. “Empty words,” he growls to his palms. Looks abruptly back up at Dean, his gaze stony. “Even before, as a human. You were scared of this.” He gestures between himself and Dean, and something in Dean locks up tight. “Of us.”

It takes a second for Dean’s throat to work, and then he says as steadily as possible, “There is no ‘us’. There never was an ‘us’.”

Cas laughs, but it’s more of a bark than anything. He puts both hands to his face, drags them down hard enough that Dean can hear the stubble rasp against his palms.

“Oh, I know,” Cas says coldly. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

They stare at each other across the table. There’s not a lot of room beneath it, but no part of Dean is touching any part of Cas. They are meticulously separated.

Dean is searching for a flippant, dismissive remark, but one doesn’t want to come. When Cas sees that he’s obviously not going to say anything, he laughs again. Hollow. Stares down at the table, resigned.

There’s a faint vibration that Dean can hear, and it takes him a moment to realize the sudden movement on the other side of the table is Cas digging in his pocket. He pulls it out, and when he sees the caller ID, a familiar kind of frustration sets in the lines of his face.

“I’m taking this,” he says to Dean as he slides out of the booth. “Don’t-” he starts, then almost immediately stops. “Nevermind. I don’t care.”

He walks away, murmuring into his phone. Dean flips his shot glass over.

“Strike… eight hundred and thirty two?” he says to no one in particular.

He links his hands behind his neck, raps his forehead on the table a couple of times. They haven’t seen each other for months, and their reunion has already turned predictably ugly. Obviously, there are factors at play here that wouldn’t make any kind of meeting comfortable, but some dumb small part of Dean has clung to Cas’ presence through it all. A lifeline, like hearing his voice would somehow make things better, even if it also leaves Dean miserable at the same time.

He looks around for Cas, but he’s disappeared. Probably took the call outside where it’s quieter.

Dean wonders how long Cas will follow him. Wonders what Cas would follow him through, just how much shit he could put up with before splitting for good and taking Metatron’s advice and writing his own happy ending. There are plenty of people out there Cas could be happy with. Plenty of things he could do that Dean knows would make him content. Dean is not essential to Cas’ happiness, and has in fact been a long running impediment to it. Even as pumped up with demon juice as he is, Dean can see that.

The problem, of course, is that Dean wants Cas. So he never runs completely out of reach. Is too afraid that, if Cas lets go of his coattails, he falls. The Mark tries to stifle those feelings a lot of the time, bury them beneath layers of cement, but this isn’t the first time Dean’s clawed his way out of the earth with Cas’ help.

It doesn’t change the fact that Dean is bad. Dirty. The further he’s fallen, the quicker he’s realized that those naïve dreams of this somehow making him better for Cas are nothing more than smoke. He may be weak when it comes to seeing Cas, hearing him. But the Mark gives him the strength to push the harsh words out of his mouth, to pick at the wounds and then pour salt in them.

He doesn’t think about the nights he’s spent in seedy motels, his hand too rough as he jacks himself, spilling across his stomach only when he finally breaks and moans Cas’ name. Doesn’t think about long lost trench coats and a gaze that holds, until for once, he is still. Grown roots.

Cas gives him roots, and he refuses to think about that. _Can’t_ , with the red that clouds his thoughts. It’s too harsh. Too much.

So when Cas slides back into the seat across from him, Dean’s already smirking.

“Who was that?”

Cas puts his phone on the table, resting a hand over it. He really does look terrible. Dean imagines he doesn’t look much better.

“No one.”

 Dean waggles his eyebrows. “A girl.”

Cas gives him an exhausted, baleful glare.

“Really,” he says flatly.

“Ahhh, isn’t it comfortable to know some things never change,” Dean ribs him good naturedly. “My eyes may have turned black, but my inappropriate interest in your love life will never stop.”

Cas lifts his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“It was an associate.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “A feathery associate?”

“No. A fellow tax paying American.”

“Ha. Didn’t think you guys paid taxes upstairs.” He shakes his head. “Can’t even escape The Man after you’ve hit the Big Sleep, huh? That sucks.”

“I’ve never paid taxes.”

“They put people like you in jail, you know.”

“Maybe my new friends in prison won’t lead me on a wild goose chase across the entirety of America.”

“Ooh, ouch,” Dean says. “You’re so petty, Cas.”

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of Cas’ mouth. “It would seem so.”

The good will holds between them for only a couple seconds as the banter dies away and reality quickly settles back over their heads.

“Her name is Hannah,” Cas says. “I’m working with some of the fallen angels, trying to round up our siblings and unite them against Metatron.”

“Yeah? And how’s that going?”

Cas shrugs. “They seem to think they need me, but they’ve been doing just fine on their own.”

Dean nods in understanding. “You’re their posterboy.”

Cas grimaces painfully. “Apparently some of my siblings have very short memories. There are much worthier symbols out there.”

“Eh,” Dean says. “Don’t sell yourself short. You _were_ God, after all.”

“Hardly,” Cas says dryly.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well, the Bible is a load of horseshit too but people still go gaga over it.”

“It’s not all horseshit,” Cas reminds him.

Dean almost smiles. “Yeah. I guess the angel bits panned out, huh?”

Cas gestures down at himself, at his wan skin and ill-fitting clothes. (Though Dean notes, Cas is still wearing his shirts.) “And look where that got us.”

 “What’s that saying?” Dean says wryly, hoping the bitterness he tastes on his tongue doesn’t coat his words. When he shifts his weight in his seat, he can feel the wound on his chest stretch slightly. “If it ain’t dead don’t fix it.”

“Close enough I’m sure,” Cas agrees quietly.

Silence falls between them again. Dean can feel the beginnings of another itch, a slight tickle in his fingertips that means the Mark is getting revved up for another kill. He’s been able to coast on the high from killing Abaddon for a couple days, but even the most potent of drugs wears off eventually. He’s going to need something else soon.

To distract himself, he grabs Cas’ phone. Cas watches warily as he taps on the screen.

“There won’t be much of interest to you in there,” Cas tells him.

Dean scrolls through the contacts list until he finds Hannah’s name. He clicks on the little information button but there’s nothing there. He closes out of that tab, opening the maps one. Under “History”, he finds what he needs and memorizes it. Before handing it back to Cas, he closes out of the maps tab as well.

“You don’t even have Candy Crush,” Dean complains as he slides the phone across the table. “And you should probably lock your phone. Or at least code your contact names.”

“Duly noted,” Cas says as he slips his phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for looking out for me,” he continues, sarcasm slipping into his tone.

 “I got your back, Jack,” Dean says unconvincingly. He wants to tell Cas he’ll always be there, but that’s a complete lie. He’s trying to get _away_ from Cas, for fuck’s sake. This kind of thing is hardly conducive.

Cas studies him, eyes narrowed slightly. In this lighting, his eyes are dark and deep. They’re sunk into his face, and Dean realizes it’s because his face has thinned out since the last time he saw him. His hair is longer as well, unkempt and curling behind his ears, just brushing the back of his collar. Dean almost doesn’t want to see him in proper lighting. Afraid of what’ll be in front of him.

“You’re dying,” he blurts before he can stop himself. Distress, sudden and tight, swiftly builds in his chest.

Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Probably. Just another on the long list of perks of stealing an angel’s grace.”

Dean sputters.

“You told me you didn’t think that was going to happen,” he accuses, the panic swooping through him.

“I miscalculated,” Cas says mildly.

Dean blanches, his eyes widening in horror.

“Well fucking fix it,” he snaps.

Cas shoots him a bizarre look, like this wasn’t the reaction he expected.

“There aren’t a whole lot of cures for something like this,” he explains. He nods at Dean. “We seem to find ourselves in similar situations.”

Dean stares at him hard, then shoves himself out of the booth. He’s not looking where he’s going, ramming into shoulders as he passes. Behind him, he hears Cas call his name.

The night is cold and starless, and the stark chill of the air seems to slam home the reality of it. That brief familiarity, the beautiful thing he felt while giving into the Mark flares momentarily, hard and bright. It makes the breath catch in Dean’s throat, but he swallows it all back down, his thoughts swirling madly.

There’s a bench across the road, beneath a streetlight. Beside the bench is a small sign that proclaims it as a Greyhound pick up spot. Dean sits there for lack of anywhere else to go, staring at the light emanating from the bar windows but not seeing it. He watches Cas hurry across the street towards him, his breath puffing out in front of him in little clouds. His hands are in the pocket of his jacket, and he stops only when the tips of his shoes are barely an inch away from the tips of Dean’s.

He meets Dean’s gaze, and for a moment so brief Dean’s not even sure it exists, he watches Cas’ eyes widen in startled recognition. His mouth drops open and a flash of fear bolts across his face.

He schools it within a blink, however, and Dean almost swears he imagined it. 

“Going somewhere?” Cas asks.

“Fuck off.”

Cas looks at the sign. “Forget frogs and raining blood. Dean Winchester boarding a Greyhound is the true sign of the apocalypse.”

“You’re an asshole. You know that, right?”

“Says the demon to his dying friend.”

Dean stands up, and they’re so close he can watch the rise and fall of Cas’ chest as he breathes.

“Fuck you,” he snaps. “Wasting all your goddam time chasing around a waste of space like me when you could be searching for a cure to save your _life_.”

“If you’ll recall,” Cas says calmly, “ _I’m_ trying to save _your_ life.”

Something snaps in Dean.

“I can’t fucking die!” he yells. He fights with his jacket for a moment, then thinks _fuck it_ , and sheds it, dropping it onto the bench behind him. He yanks off his shirt in the frigid night air, stands in front of Cas half naked where literally anyone could look outside and see. He points to the jagged white line on his chest with one hand, grabs the Blade from his waistband with the other.

“I shoved this into my _heart_ ,” he intones, “and woke up with a barely a scratch.”

Cas’ horrified gaze roams his torso, taking in the red veins of the Mark that have scrabbled their way across the territory of his chest. His eyes keep returning to that scar above Dean’s heart, right in the center of his devil’s trap tattoo, ironically enough.

Then his gaze drops, and suddenly he’s staring at Dean’s other scar, from where the angel blade pierced his lower stomach. He makes a small, pained noise. Looks away for a moment, eyes red, but is inevitably drawn back to it. He hardly seems to know where to look. There’s too much carnage.

So slowly, he reaches out. Presses a hesitant, warm palm over the scar on Dean’s chest.

“Dean,” he whispers, voice broken. He places his other hand on the angel blade scar, expression wrecked. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. His voice cracks. The points where he’s touching Dean are warm, almost hot to the touch despite the temperature.

“That’s the point,” Dean says. He puts two fingers on the back of Cas’ hand. “These don’t matter. None of it does. You need to start worrying about yourself and let me go burn out in a ditch somewhere.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Cas vows. The way the light from the streetlamp is hitting his hair makes it look he’s wearing a halo. “No more running.”

Dean feels that itch. Involuntarily, his eyes flash black, but Cas doesn’t flinch.

“Come with me,” Cas says quietly. “Please, Dean.” He trails his left hand up Dean’s neck, across the red like its nothing. Rests it on Dean’s cheek. The other, he brings up and rests on Dean’s left shoulder, right where the Mark never dared to touch.

The skin there is smooth and unblemished. Once upon a time, the imprint of a hand laid there. Now, a real hand takes its place.

Dean smacks it away.

“You need to stop,” he says, though he aches to say something different. He turns away from Cas, picking his shirt and jacket up off the bench, shoving them back on. “With this. With me. Just leave it alone, Cas. Leave _me_ alone.”

Cas’ face may as well be stone.

“I won’t,” he says. “This is my fault. This is on me. I’m going to fix it.” Then, forcibly neutral, he adds, “After you’re cured, I’ll leave, if that’s what you still want. You’ll never have to see me again. But the last thing I ever do to you won’t be letting you die in my arms. It’ll be curing you.”

“Oh, yeah, cause the last thing you’re going to do to me is _die_ on me if you keep this self-sacrificing bullshit up,” Dean snaps, “Yeah, Cas, that’s exactly what I want. How fucking romantic. I’m swooning.”

Cas’ gaze roves over his face, searching. Then, he blows out a frustrated stream of air.

“I don’t know what more I can say, Dean. You know my plan. You know what I’m going to do. I’m not changing my mind.”

Dean wets his lips, equally frustrated. First, he stares up at the light, then drops his eyes back to Cas’.

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s how you want to play this, it takes two to tango, right? You can scurry off to search for a cure that doesn’t exist for me, and I’ll actually do something practical, search for something solid. I’m gonna find your grace.”

That _whatever it is,_ the beautiful thing in his chest flutters at the prospect, glowing eagerly. Bizarrely enough, it feels like it’s giving Dean a direction to go in. A heading.

Cas closes his eyes, shaking his head slowly.

“You should stay with me,” he says, though from his tone Dean already knows he knows the answer.

“You wanna hook up so bad, then how about _you_ stay with _me_?” Dean bluffs. “We’ll find your grace together.”

“I-” Cas stops, and for one surprised (joyful) second, Dean thinks he’s actually going to call him on it and say yes. He looks like he’s weighing something up in his mind. But then the second passes, and Cas is shaking his head again.

“I’m not abandoning the search for a cure for you,” he says. Then, sadly, “I don’t think you know how much I wish I could go with you. But if I have to choose between saving you and being with you, I’m going to save you, Dean.”

Dean feels the weight of that on his chest, and every breath feels laborious.

“You missed the stop for my salvation a long time ago,” he says. “I wish you’d get that through your thick head.”

Cas almost smiles, but it’s a sad, wilting thing.

“I will always carry the burden for what happened to you, Dean. But I feel like you should know this isn’t only about me fixing my own mistakes. It’s about you being worth fighting for. Ever since the first moment I’ve met you, you’ve been worth it. All of it.”

Dean clears his throat, the upset building there, hard to swallow around.

“I need to go,” he manages to choke out. He brushes by Cas, so briefly hooking his index finger around Cas’ own that it could have been a simple accident. He can almost feel the darkness swallow him up as he leaves the circle of sickly sodium light cast by the streetlamp. He walks across the street again, hands shoved in his pockets until he has to dig out his car keys. With shaking hands, he unlocks the Impala and slides behind the wheel, blinking until his vision clears. He turns the keys in the ignition, reverses out his spot. Cas remains under the street light, watching him go.

And then he follows the brightness in his chest, the Mark of Cain struggling in vain against its pull.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean drives to Marshalltown, Iowa. An address there was the most frequented location in Cas’ GPS, and the bright spot in his chest seems willing enough to go. Dean can feel its gentle tug east, even as he’s getting out of the car in front of the large, secluded building in Marshalltown he assumes is angel central.

Whatever this feeling is, it seems to be doing its damnedest to keep the Mark at bay. The entire drive here Dean could feel the two bubbling under his skin, feeling each other out. He started to think of them as the little angel and devil that pop up on people’s shoulders in cartoons. Of course, there’s a little more at stake here than children’s programming, but Dean is still raw from his encounter with Cas, now more than twenty four hours ago.

He’s aware that this is probably a bad idea. A demon walking into a building full of angels. It almost reads like a bad joke. But he figures if anyone has an idea of where Cas’ grace would be, it would be someone in that building. He’s already texted Cas, asked him where he is. Dean didn’t necessarily care where, only that he wasn’t currently here.

The angel compound is mostly glass surrounded by trees well on their way into the peak of their autumn colors, and from Dean’s quick research is the only building that ever got built in a planned office block before the rest of the plans and investors fell through. It lends itself well to privacy, minus all the jokes that could be made about people who live in glass houses.

Dean thinks about maybe trying to be smart about this, but then decides he’s never been smart about anything, so why start now. Besides, he needs to talk to some of the angels. There’s no stealthy way around that.

He walks in the front door.

The place is bustling, and Dean is immediately surrounded by the quiet murmur of voices, the ringing of phones, the shuffling of paper. There’s maybe one hundred angels (Dean assumes they’re all angels) in this room alone, everyone in the state of doing something. It’s almost bizarre how normal it all looks, how human.

At first, no one notices him. Dean chalks it up to their weaker senses, most of them dulled considerably since the Fall. The further into the room he walks though, the more gazes follow him. Then the whispers start. Then the murmurs. His name echoes around the room like someone shouted it into a cave, mixed in with anger and suspicion and even fear.

No one says anything directly to him until a nearby elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a brown haired woman wearing a grey blazer. She takes two steps before she sees Dean, and then stops dead, her blue eyes widening.

“Dean Winchester,” she says, obviously caught off guard. Dean is suddenly very aware of the Blade tucked into his jeans, hidden by his shirt.

Her confirmation of his identity sends the surrounding angels into gales of whispers, and Dean is unsurprised to learn the angels are as gossipy as he always thought they were.  

“I’m gonna take a stab in the dark here and say you’re Hannah,” he says.

Confusion steals across her expression for a moment, and then hardens considerably.

“You’ve been talking to Castiel,” she says, voice tripping into something dangerous.

Dean shrugs amicably.

“Not about you,” he says, “But yeah, I heard about your little operation here.”

Their audience continues to buzz.

“What do you want?” Hannah snaps. “He’s not here.”

Dean takes a step forward, and feels the room tense.

“Oh, I know,” he says. “I wouldn’t be here if he was. I’m looking for Cas’ g-”

“ _Stop_ ,” Hannah commands before he can even get the word out, a slight, panicked look settling about her. “We will continue this conversation in private.” She nods back towards the elevator she just exited. “Follow me.”

The eyes of the other angels follow Dean until the doors close shut behind him, and even then it’s like he can still feel their stares.

Hannah stands as far away from him as possible in the elevator.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she says neutrally.

“I thought you were all very welcoming,” he says dryly.

The elevator doors slide open, and Hannah leads him down a hallway into a fairly non-descript office. There’s a desk, a chair on either side of it, and some shelves. No personal markers whatsoever.

“Sit,” Hannah offers.

Dean stands. So does she.

“This visit is not going to end well for you,” Hannah tells him, the threat evident.

“Nice of you to let me know,” Dean simpers. “Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t smite me right there. Show the drones what’s what.”

“You were about to reveal that Castiel has been without his grace since the Fall,” Hannah says coldly. “That information does not need to be widely known.”

Dean crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows.

“You’re telling me no one knows Cas lost his grace? What, they think he just does human shit like eat and crap and, oh, I dunno, be in the process of _dying_ just for fun?” Dean asks skeptically.

“Our grace may remain intact, but the Fall affected everyone differently,” Hannah says. “Some of my siblings must eat now. Some must sleep. Some do both.” Sadness clouds her gaze as she says, “We all lost our wings.”

“So, what, Cas told you he lost his mojo? Figured that would be enough to get him kicked out of the mile high club.”

Hannah shakes her head. “Castiel didn’t tell me anything. I figured it out.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been… supplementing him, let’s say. With my own grace. To slow down his deterioration.” She stares determinedly past Dean, and Dean can see the beginnings of hurt there, of betrayal. She does her best to mask them, though. “The first time I did it, I could feel the rotten grace of another one of my siblings, and suddenly it all made sense. Castiel’s sickness. His agreement to help us even though he clearly didn’t want to. He felt obligated.”

“Duty and obligation?” Dean says flippantly, “That hardly sounds like Cas.”

Hannah looks at him strangely, but before she can ask, Dean holds up a hand.

“That was sarcasm,” he says.

Hannah nods curtly. “Right. Of course.” She stares at Dean curiously for a moment, head tilted, (which reminds Dean uncomfortably of Cas) then says, “Christo.”

Dean flinches, feeling his eyes involuntarily slip to black. Hannah’s own widen slightly.

“So they were right,” She says neutrally. There’s a glint of silver, and as Dean blinks his eyes back to green, he watches the angel blade that’s appeared in her hand. 

“C’mon,” he says, “We were having a friendly chat.”

Hannah appraises him for a long moment before putting the angel blade down on her desk with a dull thud.

“What did you come here for, if not Castiel?” she asks.

“I’m looking for a line on Cas’ grace,” he says. “I’m trying to find it.”

Hannah’s gaze immediately turns suspicious. “ _Why_?”

“To make duck l’orange,” Dean rolls his eyes. “So I can give it back to him before he fucking dies, obviously.”

Hannah moves her hand slightly away from her blade, but her eyes remain narrowed.

“Why would a demon want to help an angel regain his grace?”

Dean is silent for a moment, struggling to come up with an answer.

“I was human before I was a demon,” he finally comes up with. “Cas and me have been through a lot together.”

“He’s your friend,” Hannah says.

“Yep.”

“You don’t want him to die.”

“Got it in one.”

Hannah bites her lip.

“I don’t know anything about Cas’ grace,” she admits. “I figured it had something to do with the Fall, but that’s it.”

Oh, it had something to do with the Fall, alright, Dean thinks.

“What about Metatron?” he asks.

“The last we heard, he was somewhere on the east coast,” she says. “We know he was up to something. We’re just not sure what.”

The brightness in Dean’s chest pulses gently, reminding him that it too wants to go east.

Dean nods as he scrubs a hand over his stubble. Tries to ignore the thing that’s been pecking at him since he walked in here. Since he first saw Hannah’s name on Cas’ phone, actually. In the grand scheme of things, it’s ridiculous. Especially since Dean’s party line on this whole thing between him and Cas has been to get as far away from it as possible.

“Look, about you and Cas…” Dean starts, hoping that’ll be enough.

Hannah stares blankly at him, and Dean remembers, right. Newbie angel.

“Is there… anything between you?” he asks.

Hannah frowns slightly. “I’m not sure where he is right now, but many miles, I’d imagine.”

“Jesus Christ. Anything _romantic_ between the two of you?” he asks. He shouldn’t have even bothered. “Y’know. Holding hands. Making goober eyes at each other. Re-enacting the Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene.”

“I didn’t understand half of that,” Hannah says, “But no, I don’t believe so. I have no desire to hold Castiel’s hand. Or make… ‘goober eyes’ at him. However, he is my brother, and I care for him.”

“Er… Right,” Dean says. “Brother. That might… make things awkward.”

“Angelic siblings and human siblings are different,” Hannah clarifies. “Many angels have mated before, and many will mate in the future. But Castiel and I will never mate. Neither of us has expressed an interest.” Her tone becomes weightier as she adds, “More importantly, I’d imagine he has already pledged himself to another.”

Dean feels like he’s been plunged into ice water. “ _What_?” he snaps.

At that same moment, the door to Hannah’s office bursts open and six angels cram themselves in, two of which grab Dean roughly by the arms.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hannah growls, glaring at them.

They start manhandling him towards the door.

“He’s an abomination, sister,” one of them says over their shoulder. “Who had the arrogance to simply walk right through our front door. We are going to deal with him.”

“No,” Hannah says, “Wait!”

But they ignore her. The last Dean sees of Hannah is her frantically digging her phone out of her pocket.

***

 They tie him up in the main area, soaking the rope in saltwater before slapping it on his wrists and ankles. They yank up the legs of his jeans and the sleeves of his shirt, and Dean’s skin sizzles beneath it. He hisses between his teeth.

“C’mon guys,” he pleads, “You’re angels. Torture doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”

One of them, a tiny, mousey woman steps forward and slaps him with the back of her hand. Dean can feel where her rings dig into his face, and a warm trickle of blood starts down his cheek.

“Oh wait,” Dean says, hoiking a red gob of spit to the side. “It totally is.”

“You will be silent,” The woman commands, and stuffs a rag into his mouth. For good measure, she puts a piece of duct tape over it so he can’t spit it out.

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” he says, though his words are only mush once they come out of the rag.

He watches in silence. Aa many _many_ instances of being tied to chairs over the years has taught him, observation in times like these is key. It gives insight into your enemies. Too many have made the mistake of believing tying up a guy’s wrists means tying up his ears as well. Dean’s usually a big fan of running his mouth and pressing buttons, but he’s adaptable. He can make this work.

Obviously, not everyone agreed with these particular methods. Dean can see the angels slightly divided into factions, like walking into a high school and seeing the various clusters and cliques. Angels like to claim a higher moral ground, but Dean knows they’re just holier versions of the gossipy old ladies who get their hair done at salons together. All they lack are the hot rollers.

Some of the angels keep casting furtive glances at him, and despite his distaste for the species in general minus one glaring exception, he can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking. Once upon a time, he was known to them as the Righteous Man. Fated to be Michael’s vessel and strike down the devil, sword in hand.

Now he sits here in front of them, black eyed and literally smoking.  The Mark twists on his arm. Dean can feel the pulse of the Blade somewhere near him, but not near enough. They took it off him almost immediately, murmuring quietly as they discussed it in low tones. Dean has no idea if they know what it is. They didn’t roll his sleeve up far enough to see the Mark.

The mousey woman steps forward again. She starts a chant, and Dean recognizes the harsh, guttural rumble of Enochian. She glares at him, but nothing else happens. The glare turns into a frown, and then all of the angels start murmuring to each other.

Dean assumes it was some kind of exorcism. He looks at her and shrugs as well as he can within his confines, as if to say, _can’t exorcise something when there’s nothing inside to exorcise_.

“What _are_ you?” she asks him in disgust, before turning her back on him.

Even if he wasn’t gagged, Dean wouldn’t have an answer for her.

He hears the ding of the elevator, and then Hannah is suddenly striding forward, eyes like chips of ice. For a moment, Dean thinks that gaze is directed at him, but Hannah hardly looks at him. Her eyes sweep the crowd around him, anger tight in every line of her face.

“How dare you,” Hannah snaps, gaze always roving, never landing on one specific angel. Immediately, Dean notices a couple of the less sure angels already looking particularly shamefaced.

The mousey woman takes a step forward. “You suggest we let a _demon_ walk freely around our territory?” she retorts.

Hannah also takes a step forward, and for someone who had her weapon at the ready for their entire conversation not twenty minutes ago, she seems awfully keen to defend him now.

“You forget, Barakiel, who this demon is,” Hannah’s voice is cool enough to flashfreeze a river. She holds up her phone. “I’ve called him. He’ll be here by tonight.” She glares at everyone again. “Until then, no one does anything.”

Barakiel’s face goes dark.

“This is absurd,” she says. “I’m supposed to stand behind a cause that defends a creature from the pit? They’re the ones we’re fighting against.”

“We’re fighting against Metatron,” Hannah reminds her. “For our home back.” Her gaze narrows. “Or have you forgotten that?”

Barakiel mutters under her breath.

“I haven’t,” she says. “But I think you may have.”

She turns on her heel and walks away, and a number of angels watch her go uncertainly. A couple drift after her, and almost right away the room starts to clear. A few still watch from a distance with dark, wary eyes.

Hannah leans forward and rips the tape off his mouth with all the tact of an angel.

“I apologize,” she says. Then, a bit wryly, “Though I did deliver on my promise. I told you this wouldn’t end well.”

“Thanks for that,” Dean says gruffly. “Next time I want my future told I’ll go to a shitty psychic who won’t tie me to a chair.”

“Unfortunately you’ll have to stay tied to that chair for a little while longer,” Hannah says. “They’re not going to let you leave until we’ve solved this.” She looks at her watch. “Castiel will arrive in a couple hours.”

Dean suddenly feels like a kid whose parents got called by the school.  Ridiculously, embarrassment floods him.

“Here I am, trying to help your brother out, and this is the thanks I get,” Dean says. “Great.”

“He’s… not everyone’s favorite brother,” Hannah hedges.

“Was it that time he killed all the angels?” Dean asks sarcastically. “Or that _other_ time he killed all the angels?”

Hannah’s jaw goes tight.

“I’m aware of his misdeeds, thank you.”

“Hey, believe it or not,” Dean surrenders, “I’m not here to pick a fight. It was your goon squad that threw the first punch.”

Hannah eyes him.

“A demon walked right into the middle of a building full of angels,” Hannah says, linking her hands behind her back. “What did you expect?”

“Other than it being a bad idea, not much,” he admits. “I came here to find Cas’ grace. That’s about as far as I thought this through.”

Hannah ducks her head, and Dean swears it’s to hide a smile. But when she raises her gaze again, her expression is serious.

“That’s very noble… for a demon.”

Dean allows himself a black laugh. “I bet.”

Hannah puts a hand on his shoulder briefly.

“I have to go see to some things,” she says. “I’ll make sure no one tries anything, though.”

As she walks away, Dean calls after her.

“Okay so I’ll just… hang out. I guess.”

***

Not that the Mark ever lays off or anything, but ever since yanking a tooth out of his own head, Dean has felt more balanced. _More in tune with it_ , he’s hesitant to even think. Standards change.

If all that encompassed Dean was put into a box, he’s afraid the Mark isn’t necessarily adding more junk on top of it all-junk that could be stripped away with a hearty grip and a mighty pull- but fundamentally changing the contents. Tainting them. Not that he’s ever been riotously protective of his sense of self, since he was hardly a fan on a good day, but there’s something instinctively terrifying about looking in the mirror and not recognizing what you see.

Dean Winchester the demon is no idiot, and is aware that Dean Winchester the human was no saint. Minus that tiny voice whispering in his ear sometimes, Dean wonders if the Mark of Cain actually changed him at all. The reality of that thought is almost as bad as the unreality, sometimes. The constant push-pull of Dean putting everything on the Mark, and then nothing.

He knows, eventually, that it’s going to get really bad. That the current is going to carry him out to sea, unforgiving.

He’ll drown there, if only the Mark will let him.

But first, Cas. Sam’s still long gone, but at least Dean can do something for Cas before it all turns to even more shit. While he still has the capacity to care, even if he piles it under mountains of bullshit and swagger and cruelty.

He’s scared. Lost in the dark. Cas has tried so hard, over and over, to be his light. But he keeps rebuffing it, scurries away not only because he’s afraid of what Cas might think in the harsh light of day, but what he would see of himself. He’s become transparent. Smoke. Unable to be held by the box that once contained him, but drifting up and over the sides, blowing away like the belch of smokestacks into the clouds.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in this chair, but the world outside the fluorescents of this office building has gone dark. The angels have been giving him a wide berth, but Dean’s seen more than a few eyeing him up from across the room. There’s mutiny in the air. Dean can practically taste it.

Hannah’s come by a couple times to check on him, glaring at people in the truly angelic way Dean’s never been able to master, full of holy fire and righteous fury.

The Mark ticks on his arm like a car engine cooling down, patient but not dormant. Every half hour or so, an angel will come by and carefully wet his restraints again.

Finally, Dean hears a familiar rumble and drops his chin to his chest in thanks, if only for his ankles and wrists.

Moments later, Cas storms in the door, bringing the autumn breeze in with him. Papers ruffle on desks and some flutter to the floor, caught in the stream. The room goes almost completely silent as Cas’ eyes rove the floor. When his gaze connects with Dean’s, he’s reminded of all the wrath Cas brought down on that tiny barn in Pontiac, Illinois, the first time they met in the flesh. That same storm is in his expression now, the thundercloud of his brow and lightning clap of his steps across the floor.

“Commander-” someone starts quietly, but Cas doesn’t even spare them a glance as he beelines for Dean. Like even the most angelic of crowds tend to, the angels follow the impending commotion, drifting in around them in a loose circle, keeping their distance.

As soon as Cas gets close enough that no one around them can hear, he murmurs, “I’m sorry.” His hands immediately go to Dean’s wrists, pulling at his bonds there. When they’re off, Dean leans down and undoes his ankles, wincing at the new burn to his fingers. Cas’ hands, seemingly automatic, gently press to Dean’s wrist, rubbing feeling back into them.

“Commander, huh?” Dean says in the same, private tone. “Shiver me timbers.”

 “Shut up. What are you doing here, Dean?” Cas asks. “What the hell could you want from a bunch of fallen angels in Iowa.”

“Looking for your grace,” Dean says. “Since all these bozos still got juice pumping in their veins, I figured I’d sniff around.”

At that, Cas’ face whips up, gone milky white. His hands still on Dean’s wrists.

“You didn’t tell them-” he starts, but Dean cuts him off.

“Hannah already knows,” he says. “She’s known for a while, I think. Not the specifics… but enough.” With his newly freed hand, he claps Cas on the shoulder and winces when his raw wrist brushes against the fabric of his shirt. “She’s been propping you up for the entire summer, dude. You probably owe her a thank you card.”

“ _What_?”

Dean looks over at the now familiar _ding_ of the elevator, and Cas follows his gaze, his fingers back to rubbing soothing circles into Dean’s wrists. Dean lets him.

When Cas catches Hannah’s eye as she’s walking through the door, the corner of her mouth tips up slightly, but her eyes remain sad. Cas nods, just barely there, and seems to steel himself.

“It would appear I have some things to own up to,” he says, more to himself than Dean. He starts to stand up, but Dean yanks him back down.

“Whoa there, sparky,” he says. “Fuck that noise. Let’s get the hell out of here and you can send Hannah a fruit basket from Brazil.”

Before Cas can respond, Dean hears the voice of Barakiel again.

“Go,” she says calmly, and suddenly Dean finds himself for the second time today being yanked up and away by angels, almost ripped directly from Cas’ grip. Cas stands up in a fury, but Barakiel nods, and two more angels step up behind Cas, their obvious instructions to keep him in line.

The angels drag Dean backwards a few feet, then stop, holding him roughly. Barakiel comes up to him, over a foot shorter than him probably, and shakes a vial of holy water in his face.

He hisses through his teeth as steam rises off him, his gaze gone black once more. As he blinks the water from his eyes, he can see the angels around him, some hostile, some suspect.

“Consorting with a demon?” Barakiel says, looking back to Cas, who watches her with barely contained fury. “How exactly does that further the mission, Castiel?”

Hannah starts forward, anger plain on her own face.

“You will address him as Commander-” she starts, but a few more angels step toward her menacingly and she stops, glaring at them.

“That’s fine, Hannah,” Cas says levelly. “Thank you.” He looks at Barakiel. “This isn’t about the mission. This is a power grab.”

“This is about righting wrongs,” she hisses. “After all you’ve done, Castiel. All our brethren you’ve murdered. How could you expect me to follow you into battle? I’d refuse to walk behind you, afraid you’d lead us off a cliff. But if I walked in front of you, I’d merely be waiting for you to stab me in the back.” She backs up a couple paces, surveying the crowd around her. “It was Castiel’s grace that caused us to fall,” she announces. “His grace that has led to this… this _debauchery_. This misery.” Her eyes glitter with hatred. “And then to save himself, he stole the grace of another. It’s currently rotting inside him, while our brother lies dead because of it.”

A hushed, shocked murmur goes through the crowd.

Hannah looks at Cas, eyes wide. She told Dean she suspected as much, but Dean can imagine actually having it confirmed is a whole other story.

“Is that true?” she asks.

Cas doesn’t seem to have the words. He looks away, throat working, and Hannah takes that as all the confirmation she needs. She looks genuinely stung, the strongest emotion Dean’s seen on her since he met her.

“How could you?” she asks quietly, voice laced with betrayal.

“I had an obligation-” Cas starts, but the beginning of that excuse sounds weak even to Dean’s ears, and Hannah interrupts him.

“An obligation that overrode your ability to tell the truth, apparently,” she says scathingly. She takes a step back, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s saying. “I’m sorry, Castiel,” she says quietly, stepping into the elevator. She surveys him with hurt eyes that sparkle with tears, and Dean wonders if this is the first time she’s cried in her human vessel. “I can’t help you anymore.”

The elevator doors slide shut, and their only ally disappears.

Cas’ face contorts with pain and he doubles over, breathing heavily. Dean realizes all at once that Hannah didn’t just mean she pulled her vote out of their corner, but stopped acting as Cas’ training wheels for his grace. Panic fills him as he realizes this speeds up his timeline indefinitely.  

“How the fuck did you even know that?” he snaps at Barakiel.

“Hannah is not our only observant sister,” she says. “Castiel was obviously more affected in the Fall than any of us. The symptoms he was experiencing at the beginning of the summer were not of human origin, but angelic. He was experiencing grace sickness, well on his way to dying before Hannah decided to intervene.” She shrugs. “I suppose we’re back on track now.”

Dean struggles against the angels holding him, growling at Barakiel.

“Oh, you are fucking cold, sister,” he says. He looks around at the crowd, appealing to them all. “If any of you had _any_ idea the kind of shit Cas went through for you, you’d all be tripping over yourselves to fall at his feet. Besides, Metatron _slit Cas’ throat_ to steal his grace, how the hell is that _his_ fault?”

“Leave it, Dean,” Cas says weakly. A fine sheen of sweat has broken out over his face, his complexion drawn.

Dean looks at him like he’s grown another head. “They need to know the truth, Cas, Jesus Christ.”

Barakiel looks between them smugly.

“Are you going to take the word of this demon?” she asks the crowd. She gestures to Dean. “And the word of an angel defended _by_ a demon?” She gestures to Cas. A carefully cultivated surprised expression crosses her features, undoubtedly an idea she had long before this, but is playing up as a spur of the moment thing.

“I think the answer here is simple enough,” she says, suddenly in possession of an angel blade. She walks towards Cas, blade end pointed directly at him.

“I swear to god if you hurt him,” Dean growls.

“Someone get that gag from earlier,” she says nonchalantly, and suddenly there’s that same dark rag being shoved unceremoniously into his mouth again. Dean meets Cas’ eye, and there’s terror lurching in his chest, threatening to turn him inside out with it. He can feel the Mark brewing on his arm, and for once he tries to let the fury in, let it consume him, turn it all red.

The worst part of it is, Cas just _stands_ there. No one has to hold him there as Barakiel presses the tip of the angel blade to his chest, and Dean has flashbacks to Cas begging him in the rain to just _do it_ , begging Dean to once and for all put just enough weight on the end of the Blade to slide it home, end it all.

Then, Barakiel turns to look at Dean, and in a move so nimble Dean can’t process it, has twirled the blade around in her fingers so the hilt is now pointed at Cas.

“A test of loyalty,” Barakiel says softly. She reaches forward, curling Cas’ fingers around the handle of the blade. “Prove to us your devotion, and I will swear you my allegiance, and everyone with me.” She smiles softly. “Kill Dean Winchester.”

***

Barakiel looks at him, assessing.

“Us or him,” she says. “Dean Winchester for an army and your family back.”

Dean can see the frantic jump in Cas’ eyes, akin to an animal backed into a corner.

He doubts it matters to Cas, but if Cas shoved that blade into his heart he’d probably just wake up on the sorer side a couple hours later. Probably.

He tries to speak around the rag, but it all comes out as a muffled jumble. Since they didn’t tape it this time, he manages to push it forward with his tongue before spitting it out.

He doesn’t mean to echo Cas in that parking lot, but it comes out without thinking.

“Cas,” he says. “Do it.”

He wants to believe this is a two birds one stone situation. Kill him, the threat. And get Cas back in good with a bunch of dickwads who don’t deserve him.

( _And you do_? A voice asks, but he shoves that thought away very quickly.)

For the latter, he has to work his brain in naïve little circles to make himself believe the angels will accept Cas back like the prodigal son, but as often with Dean, self-hate wins out and he tells himself Cas would be better with them than with him.

“I would accept his invitation, Castiel,” Barakiel says.

Cas looks between her and Dean, and Dean watches him readjust his grip on his blade. His expression switches from pain when it’s directed at him to outright fury when it’s directed at Barakiel.

The other angels watch in silence, with the rapt attention often only directed at someone who’s about to hang from the gallows. Hannah is still absent, and in the clench of Cas’ fist he can tell that her grace is as well.

He looks at Dean, and seems to be saying so many different things.

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but when Cas looks at him like that, his eyes flicker back to green.

He looks back to Barakiel.

“No,” he says simply, and puts the angel blade down on the desk.

It feels like someone just punctured the room. A collective sigh rolls through the crowd, and Dean can’t tell if it’s disappointed or relieved. Barakiel’s jaw tightens and her mouth thins into one line.

“You will never again be one of us,” she says softly. “No one will welcome you back after what you did.”

“Probably not,” Cas acquiesces. He turns, addressing the crowd. “I won’t tell you how to feel about me,” he says. “I’ve made many mistakes. Too many to count. And I may not be your family anymore, but you are still mine. If you need me in any capacity, I will make myself available to you.” He glances at Barakiel again. “But for some of us, perhaps cutting ties is best.” His gaze shifts to Dean, and his eyes grow soft. “You get to choose your family,” he finishes quietly. He’s still speaking to the crowd, but he’s looking at Dean. “Make it a good one.”

The hold on Dean loosens, and the angels who were restraining him step back. There’s a tap on his elbow, and he looks back to see one of them holding the Blade out to him.

He accepts it, but hesitantly.

He meets Cas’ eye, and Cas nods slightly, inclining his head towards the front doors. Dean hurries forward, tucking the Blade back into his waistband and following Cas out into the night.

Multiple pairs of eyes follow them out, and Dean only feels like he can breathe again when the door closes behind them. The Mark, now revved up and with nowhere to go, sends adrenaline skittering along Dean’s nerves, begging to be released.

He breathes in deep. Tries to let to cool autumn air smother it. Cas is still walking, Dean following.

“Hey,” he says to Cas, letting his voice carry in the night.

Cas turns back to look at him, the hollows of his eyes sunken. He looks exhausted, half-dead. It hits Dean square in the chest.

“Not to state the obvious here…” he says, drifting closer. Cas watches him, eyes dark. “But you just gave up an entire army for one guy… one _demon_ ,” he says like he can’t believe it.

Cas surveys him.

“You must be one hell of a guy, then,” he says mildly.  

“One hell of a demon?” Dean asks.

Cas shrugs.

“Either way, it’s you,” he says. In the trees, the leaves rustle in the breeze. The stars are out tonight.

“It won’t always be,” Dean says quietly. “Me, I mean,” he clarifies, holding his marked arm out. “Soon it’ll just be this.”

“It won’t come to that,” Cas promises him.

Dean looks at him. Thinks about it.

“Something is telling me to go east,” he says. “To the coast. The ocean, I think.”

“Something?” Cas asks.

“I don’t know what it is,” Dean says. “It’s just something. In here.” He points to his chest. “Whatever it is, it’s been keeping the bloodlust demon crap in check for the most part.”

Even now, he can feel it working against the Mark. Bringing him down. The urge to fight, to kill, lessens. His hands, which he didn’t realize he was balling into fists, unclench.

And yet somehow, he knows this isn’t for him. Knows it belongs somewhere else. He’s experiencing the side effects, merely a pit stop on the way to something else. A vessel.

“It’s not mine,” Dean continues after a minute. “But it’s… it’s good. It feels right.” He looks away, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he mumbles.

Something sparks in Cas’ expression, but he seems to file it away quickly, not quite intent on sharing his thoughts with Dean just yet. Instead, he just says, “It’s helping you fight the Mark. Everything else we can figure out later.”

Dean is afraid fighting the Mark is akin to shaking a bottle of soda. He can cork it up, but he’s afraid of what’s going to explode out of it when someone finally pops the cap.

But for now, he’ll take it.

“You should come with me,” he says without thinking. “Come east.”

“Dean, we already talked about this,” Cas starts, but Dean is already on a roll.

“But it’s a lead, right? I don’t know where or what, but it’s _something_. Better than stumbling around in the dark. Better than walking into a compound full of pissed off, mutinous angels.”

“That was your terrible plan, not mine.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, shrugging “Tell me _your_ not-terrible plan. How you gonna cure me, Cas?”

Cas opens his mouth, and then he shuts his mouth.

“Yeah that’s what I thought,” Dean says.

Cas sighs ruefully, shaking his head. Giving in.

“I used to be stubborn,” Cas says dryly. “And then you happened.”

“Aww shucks, Cas, you’re just easy for me,” Dean grins, feeling a little hop-skip in his chest.  

Dean follows Cas to his car, sliding into the passenger seat. The junker he stole is parked somewhere down the road, but he has no luggage, nothing to bring with him. Absurdly, he’s suddenly self-conscious. When was the last time he brushed his teeth?

Cas turns the key in the ignition and the Continental rumbles to life beneath them.

“An ex-angel and a new demon, on a road trip,” Dean says. “The jokes write themselves.”

A tiny smile lifts the corner of Cas’ mouth.

“We’ve always been an oddly matched duo, you and I,” he says, a little fondly.

Dean taps his fingers on the dash.

“Yeah,” he says, a little pleased. “Yeah, we have.”


	13. Chapter 13

They’ve only been driving for a couple hours when Cas pulls into a roadside motel called The Big Sleep. The neon sign is a garish thing, a half burnt out moon and stars that were once probably supposed to twinkle, but now just sputter.

“That’s comforting,” Dean mumbles. He pulls his eyes away from it and looks at Cas. “Why are we here?”

Cas’ expression is hard to read in the dark, lit only by the glow from the dashboard. He looks wry, but tired.

“I don’t know about your current need for sleep, Dean. But in the past couple months, mine has increased exponentially.”

Cas parks the Continental and they walk into the office, only dimly lit at this hour by a desk lamp. There’s no one in sight, only a bell with a “Ring for Service” sign.

Naturally, Dean repeatedly slaps his palm down on it. The tinny ring echoes through the room, loud and shrill at this late hour.

“Dean…” Cas warns, exasperated.

“Hey, I need to keep my violent bloodlust in check, okay?” He rings it a couple more times. “Consider this my equivalent to a dude in anger management punching a pillow.”

A bleary eyed man wearing a wife beater over a beer belly emerges from the back room.

“I fuckin’ heard you the first six hundred times,” he snaps gruffly, slapping Dean’s hand away from the bell. He turns his head and coughs wetly, holding what looks like an actual snot rag up to his mouth to wipe away the spittle.

Dean must be making a face because Cas jabs him in the side, below the counter. Dean schools his expression, but not before the man notices.

“We only got one room left,” he grumbles, eyeing Dean spitefully. “Single queen.”

“Oh, of course you do,” Dean says. “Buddy, your parking lot’s practically empty.”

“Your bell ringin’ probably scared ‘em all away.”

Cas steps in to mediate the situation. He pulls a couple bills from his wallet, sliding them across the counter.

“It’s fine,” he says mildly, “We’ll take it. And consider the rest a tip for outstanding service.”

 The man stares at the bills for a second before snorting, coughing, and grabbing them off the counter. He drops a key card on the counter and doesn’t even ask for their information before turning around and shuffling back down the hallway. He turns, and a second later a door closes.

Dean stands there for a moment, bites his lip.

“A single queen,” he states.

“Don’t hog the covers,” Cas says as he turns away, his tone strange. It’s too rough for a joke. He clears his throat.

Dean grabs the key card and follows him.

***

Their room is, unsurprisingly, pretty dingy.

Dean takes one look at the carpet and feels his last shred of hope drain away.

“I was going to offer to sleep on the floor,” he says, as Cas dumps his duffel on a sagging luggage rack. “But immortality or not, I’m afraid I might wake up in the morning and get up off that floor but that floor is never going to get off of me.”

“For someone in your line of work you have quite the aversion to germs,” Cas comments idly as he goes into the bathroom. He closes the door over and a moment later Dean hears the shower turn on.

He stands in the middle of the room, unsure what to do. He has nothing to unpack. Bizarrely, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at that blurry, sleeping photo of Cas despite the genuine article being barely a room over. He’s never thought about it too hard before, but the sudden realization that this is what Cas looks like when he’s mourning- mourning Dean, no less- hits him hard. Reminds him all too well of what he knows he looked like during the multiple times he’s had to mourn Cas. In the picture, Cas is sleeping. But even so, it’s impossible to ignore the slump of his shoulders, the way he looks like he’s collapsed in on himself.

Dean catches his own eye in the mirror over the dresser, the circles under his eyes and the way his clothes hang off him at odd angles.

 _We’re both mourning_ , he thinks suddenly. _I don’t know if we’re ever going to stop_.

Somehow, that thought clicks into him, sinks its teeth into the meatiest part of his flesh. He grabs his jacket, liberates Cas’ wallet and car keys, and scrawls him a quick note on a tissue.

 

_Gone out. Be back soon._

For some reason he writes _–Dean_ at the bottom, even though Cas would obviously know who the note is from.

He drives until he finds a 24 hour market, about a half hour down the road. It’s a tiny, dully lit box silhouetted against the blank, dark expanse of trees surrounding it. Dean isn’t surprised to see the parking lot is empty as he strolls up, barely glancing at the yellowed movie posters in the window, yelling at him about how the VHS version is _coming soon_.

The clerk behind the counter has headphones on and is reading a comic book, his eyes glazed over as he turns the page with a crinkly flutter. The only other sound in the store is the kind of quiet music being pumped from the speakers Dean associates with nursing homes and elevators.

He peruses the aisles, grabbing a small assortment of things. What he wants most, though, he finds at the end of the third and last aisle.

It’s a toothbrush. One of those two dollar plastic things, bright blue and a liable to lose all its bristles within a couple weeks. But when Dean runs his tongue over his teeth, carefully staying away from the hole at the back of his mouth, he feels something approaching good.

He doesn’t know why it feels like an accomplishment, however small. But it does.

He dumps his stuff on the counter in front of the kid, who doesn’t even look up.

“Hey buddy,” Dean says, waving half-heartedly in his face. “Paying customer.”

The kid looks up, pushing his headphones off his ears and letting them hang around his neck. He throws his comic off to the side.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, standing up. He starts ringing Dean through.

“No worries, kid,” Dean says. He can’t see the cover of the comic with the way it’s landed, but he juts his chin towards it anyways. “Must be pretty good.”

“What?” The kid stops scanning his stuff to follow Dean’s gaze. “Oh, yeah. It is.” He turns back to continue ringing Dean through, and that’s when Dean sees it.

The blip.

Up in the corner of the store, behind the counter, is one of those old fat televisions that broadcasts the security camera’s view of the store and the cash. It’s obviously on its way out, the screen cracked on one side and the feed tinted a strange shade of blue.

But, whatever else he may be, Dean is still a hunter. He knows his blips.

And apparently so does the Mark, because almost immediately it starts up a lowkey humming under his skin, the first tremor before the quake.

He swallows dryly.

The kid behind cash isn’t a kid at all, as it turns out. That flash in the camera, that particular slimy fish-scale silver, that’s a shapeshifter.

For so long Dean’s had it drilled into his head that not-human equals killable, and there’s little if any middle ground. He’s more than aware now that a grey area exists, but sometimes, like right now, it’s almost like he can’t even fathom it. Everything is black and white.

It’s like the Mark is a bear, waking up from a winter of hibernation, bleary and hungry. A kind of haze settles over Dean, that red again, always red. He waits for the now familiar brightness in his chest to scare it away, like cockroaches running from a spotlight, but it never comes.

The Mark seems to sneer at that, and Dean can feel its contempt. The kid is watching him warily now, and maybe this is the Mark talking again, but Dean swears there’s a malicious glint to it. A mutual understanding between them that something very bad is going to happen in the next sixty seconds in this small convenience store in the middle of nowhere.

Dean smiles thinly, reaching back to grab the handle of the Blade where it sticks out of his waistband. The kid has stopped throwing his shit into a bad and is looking at him now, considering.

“Hey man,” he says carefully. “You don’t wanna do this.”

 _He thinks you’re reaching for a gun_ , the practical side of Dean tells himself, _he thinks you’re going to stick him up_. _Place like this probably gets robbed once a month_.

 _He thinks you’re reaching for silver_ , another voice slithers in, cleanly wrapping itself around his thoughts and piercing through him. _But we both know what you have trumps silver_ and _gold_.

Dean swears he can see the kid’s skin bubbling, like a shifter’s does when it’s getting ready to change.

“Oh, I think I do,” Dean says, and pulls out his Blade.

Things happen very quickly then.

As soon as the kid realizes Dean’s not angling after cash, he narrows his eyes and spits, “Hunter,” before vaulting over the counter and trying to make a break for it.

Dean wants to say something pithy like, _better start wearing sunglasses indoors, pal_ , because then it would almost feel like normal, but he’s clouded in, crowded out by the Mark. His words are bottlenecking before they can roll off his tongue because all he can taste is tang and copper.

As the kid runs by him he catches him by the back of the shirt, yanking him back hard enough that he sends him flying into a display of Lay’s. The sound of mostly air-filled chip bags popping is loud enough to be gunshots in the quiet store. Dean keeps coming, but the kid is ready, rolling and up and away before Dean can grab him. Dean maneuvers himself so he’s blocking the exit at least, driving the kid further back into the store.

Dean watches as he starts to convulse, and this time the bubbling skin isn’t just his imagination. He lurches forward, lunching for the kid, but just as he gets a hold of his upper arm, the skin peels off in one long, bloody strip, and Dean is left holding a dripping flap.

The kid runs mushily, if that’s even possible. Dean follows, but doesn’t catch up only because he’s so disgustingly fascinated with what he’s seeing. The kid sheds as he runs, smears of blood on the merchandise he brushes by and on the floor as blood leaks out of his sneakers. When he turns a corner too sharp, there’s a loud snap and he stumbles, his ankle broken but quickly repairing itself, forming itself into another.

It’s only when Dean too rounds the corner that he realizes what the shifter is changing into is something other than human. The chunks of flesh dropping off it now are darker, closer to charred meat than human skin. The thing in front of him slows down by degrees, practically sludging by the time it reaches the door, potential safety. Its breath is rattling in its chest, leaving streaks of black in its wake like someone took to the floors with great blocks of charcoal.

Dean watches with wide eyes, the bloodlust in him confused with great, sweeping bouts of terror that he only understands on an instinctual level. He approaches cautiously where the thing is collapsed against the door, struggling to breath.

Dean may be watching it, but it is also watching Dean, terror apparent in its own gaze.

“What… are you?” it croaks out.

Shifters can only take the form of other humans.

“ _What_?” Dean snaps, afraid to come closer.

The only thing Dean can liken the shifter to now is what bodies look like after they’ve been pulled out of severe fires. The skin is split, red leaking through and trickling down to all the points. Everything _crackles_.

“It’s all… smoke,” it chokes, coughing.

Realization clunks dully inside Dean.

The shifter was trying to change into _him_. But he’s not human.

What he’s looking at in front of him is what he _actually_ looks like. A burned, broken thing.

He takes one step forward, then another.

The shifter opens its eyes, and they’re bright green against the cracked, matted black.

With a cry, Dean shoves the Blade into its chest, over and over and over again. He does it to appease the Mark, but he does it to appease himself, too.

By the end of it, he’s covered in dust and not killing a shifter at all, but the thing it tried to become.

***

Dean almost doesn’t go back to the motel.

He locks the door to the convenience store and cleans up as best he can, dumping what’s left of the shifter’s body in a shallow grave somewhere past the tree line. He fixes everything that was knocked over, uses paper towel from the washroom to wipe the blood off the merchandise- the jars of jam and the bags of chips.

Everything is done in silence. Dean is on autopilot, letting his instincts kick in and follow the proper steps for him. When he’s done, he turns off the lights and flips the open sign to the closed side.

He drives, almost straight past the motel. But then he thinks about signing that note. Promising to be back soon.

He turns back into the motel parking lot, but his hands shake on the wheel and he can feel that tenuous grasp he seemed to have on the situation start to slip, magical ball of healing light inside him or not. He walks on unsteady legs, fights with the key card for about five seconds before the door opens from the inside. Cas is watching him with hooded, worried eyes. He steps back, allowing Dean to enter the room. As Dean brushes by him, he doesn’t say a word.

The first thing Dean notices is that the bed hasn’t been slept in. Cas was waiting up. The lamp on the nightstand is on, casting a dim glow over everything. The TV is on but muted, like Cas didn’t want to miss the sound of an engine pulling into the spot right outside their room. Now that Dean is here, he walks over to the box and turns it off, keeping his back to Dean.

“I thought you weren’t going to come back,” he says quietly.

The old Cas was so direct. The old Cas would have looked Dean right in the eye as he said it, demanded an explanation. But this new Cas is quieter. Less likely to be caught off guard by the harsh ebb and flow of human emotion. Dean doesn’t know whether to blame himself, or Cas’ recent downgrade to almost-full blown humanity. He knows now that when he had it, he took Cas’ directness for granted. Now, when Cas looks away, something hollow and sad rings in him.

“I almost didn’t,” he says. Then, because that doesn’t seem like enough, he tosses Cas’ wallet and car keys onto the bed. “Sorry I, uh, borrowed those without asking.”

“I hope you went easy on Marty Zimmerman,” Cas says, referring to the name on his stolen credit card.

Dean snorts, but his chest is tight. “Didn’t even need to swipe it at all, actually.”

Cas’ shoulders rise, and then fall on a sigh as he turns around. He’s still fully clothed, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and jeans since his shower. Even in the dim light Dean can tell that his hair is still slightly damp, a couple stray drops of water staining the collar of his shirt.

He looks so naked it drives Dean crazy.

“Are you going to tell me where you went?” Cas asks softly. His eyes are trailing up and down Dean like a visual patdown, as if Dean would come back to Cas with blood on his hands if he had a choice.

“For a drive,” Dean says. He can feel the panic coming, feel his throat start closing up, so he brushes by Cas, adding gruffly, “And now I’m going for a shower.” Cas tries to catch his wrist as he goes, but Dean’s starting to feel the unreality hit him again, looming over him like a storm cloud. He slams the bathroom door, probably a little too hard for the situation at hand, and also the time of night.

He turns the water hot, and even though he shudders to think at what’s gone on in these showers, he sits on the floor of the tub, knees bent and head in his hands. This stench is nothing he can wash off, but he tries, regardless.

He stays there, barely managing to scrub some shampoo through his sweat-matted hair, until the water starts to go cold. The motel towel is unsurprisingly threadbare, but the rough texture feels almost good against his skin, like it’s exfoliating a layer or two of sludge away.

As he reaches down to knot his towel at the waist, his eye catches his anti-possession tattoo for the first time in a long while. He’s had it so long now, most of the time he just forgets it’s there.

For the most part, Dean hasn’t bothered straining his brain on how the whole demon thing works physiologically. The salt, the iron, the exorcisms, _Christo_ , whatever. To an extent, he understands the world and all its supernatural inhabitants and rules are constantly in flux, changing, evolving, and devolving. One of the biggest traits he had to adapt as a hunter was, in fact, adaptability.

But the anti-possession tattoo is a tough one. As far as juxtapositions go, an anti-possession tattoo on a demon is pretty damning. He prods it with a fingertip, watching the skin dimple around the pressure, but it doesn’t hurt. It hasn’t faded or cracked or run at all. In fact, it looks exactly the same as it always has, minus the scar from the Blade that now runs through it.

Maybe, he thinks sardonically, the tattoo is keeping the demon in as opposed to out.

But maybe that’s not it at all.

He exits the bathroom because it’s hard to think in the light and the steam makes him heady. In the dark, he doesn’t have to look his contradictions in the face.

The room is dark when he comes back, the light from the bathroom briefly outlining the shape of Cas under the covers before he closes the door over, using the crack of light to steal some sleep clothes out of Cas’ duffel.

Really, he’s just taking back what’s his, as the majority of Cas’ clothes have come from Dean’s closet. He finds an old Zeppelin shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that smell clean enough, shuffling into them and shucking his towel, before turning off the bathroom light.

He has to feel his way carefully in the dark, gently probing with his hands and feet as he searches for the side of the bed Cas isn’t currently lying on. It doesn’t take long for him to jam his toe on something, and he swears under his breath.

“Just follow my voice,” Cas’ words float up out of the dark, pulling Dean in. Then, wryly, “It’s not that big of a room.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean mutters, ignoring how the tension seems to tighten in him the closer he gets to the bed. When he feels the covers beneath his hands, he has to take a moment before sliding under, collecting himself. He thinks about kissing Cas in a motel room very similar to this one. He can feel the space between their bodies like something’s inhabiting it. He stares at the ceiling even though he can’t see it, because otherwise he would be looking at Cas, who he also can’t see.

So, to the darkness above him and the darkness beside him, he says, “I’m not even sure I’m that different.”

Cas says, “What do you mean?”

“Demon me and human me.”

There’s a shifting of weight from Cas’ side of the bed, like he’s facing Dean. “You are you,” he says. “Everything that makes you who you are is still there.”

Dean wants to ask, _does an angel’s grace make them who they are?_ But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “That’s the point. The shit I’ve done with black eyes and the shit I’ve done with green eyes are pretty par for the course, you know. That either makes me a shitty demon or an even shittier human.”

“I disagree,” Cas says.

Dean ignores him.

“You know how people have New Year’s Resolutions?” he asks the ceiling. “Lose ten pounds, drink less, exercise more, visit dad in the home, etc.”

“Not really.”

“Well it’s a thing,” Dean says. “Turning over a new leaf.”

“Okay, that’s a sentiment I understand,” Cas says.

 “But with the resolutions, they never last. The shine wears off. Two weeks later that alcoholic is drinking a beer and the lady who swore off sugar is gonna eat a pint of ice cream in front of the TV.”

“Okay,” Cas repeats.

Dean takes a breath.

“I think that’s what happened with me,” he says. “I tried to be a demon, but the shine wore off. Or on the other hand, I was already close enough to the genuine article when that angel ran me through.” He swallows. He didn’t mean to make a speech, but the words come easier in the dark. “The big difference between me before and me now?” he asks. “There is none. Like you’d think I’d be… badder. But what does that even mean, huh? I was already bad. I’ve killed people. Innocent people. I’ve stolen, lied, defrauded, counterfeited, hustled, assaulted, _murdered_ my way across this country countless times, and that was long before this Mark got its claws into me. The only thing the Mark is doing that I never got the chance to is pulling me down the drain with it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then Cas says, low like a vow, “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“But that’s the _thing_ ,” Dean tells the ceiling, and the upset in his voice is hard to mask. “You say I’m the same, demon or human, but you’re so insistent on curing me. Little inconsistent, don’t you think?”

“I want to cure you because this is not what you want,” Cas says. “I want to cure you because the Mark is trying to carry you away to somewhere unfamiliar and cruel, and you don’t deserve that.” He hesitates, then adds, “I want to cure you for _me_ , as well. It’s selfish, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Dean finally stops talking to the ceiling and turns his head, knowing Cas is only inches away from him. The space between them is infinite and non-existent at the same time.  

“You are a good man, Dean Winchester,” Cas says. “I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t.” A hand touches just above his eyebrow, Cas searching him out in the dark. It slides slowly down to cup his face, his thumb stroking along Dean’s cheekbone. “And since I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t a good man, then you must be a good man,” he says quietly. “I may doubt myself on many counts, but my love for you is not one of them.”

Dean reaches up, pulling Cas’ hand away from his face only so he doesn’t feel the wetness on his cheek. He holds tight to that hand, though, a life preserver thrown overboard.

“All that shit I pulled on you the last couple months…” he squeezes Cas’ hand. “Some of the shit I said, some of the fucking thoughts in my head… I don’t know if I can ever make that right.”

“We wear each other’s scars,” Cas tells him quietly. He pulls Dean’s hand forward, pressing his lips to Dean’s palm. “Perhaps it’s about how we tend to them that matters.”

Dean swallows past a lump in his throat, his eyes burning. Cas has brought another hand to his own, now holding one of Dean’s hands in both of his. He presses soft kisses to Dean’s knuckles, and the wet spot on Dean’s pillow grows.

“I’m so scared, Cas,” he says in a small voice. “I’m so fuckin’ scared.”

Cas shifts closer. Dean can feel warm breath on his cheek as he speaks.

“I know,” Cas murmurs, drawing the back of his hand down Dean’s cheek. “But we’re going to make it okay, Dean. We’re going to fix it.”

Dean gropes for something to hold onto, and when he finds the thin fabric of Cas’ t-shirt, he latches on for dear life. They’re close enough now that Cas is practically nuzzling into the crevice of Dean’s neck, and Dean can just barely feel the tip of his nose where it brushes the line of his jaw. Dean can taste him in the air, the almost-there feeling of Cas’ hair tickling his chin.

A hand comes to rest on Dean’s side, tracing lightly up and down the seam of his t-shirt.

“I can’t even see you, and you’re so beautiful,” Cas tells him softly. His breath ghosts against Dean’s neck, warm. “When I found you in hell, I could see it, clear as day. When we first met, I understood it as the resilience of the human soul. The beauty of my father’s creation. But the more I watched you, the more I watched humanity, I came to understand better. There is so much goodness in you, Dean. And a heavy sadness, too. You carry these things so very close to your heart, and sometimes I think you mistake one for the other. You only allow yourself to feel even an inkling of that goodness when you are sad. Like you don’t think you deserve to be happy.” An echo from the past, Cas says, “Like you don’t deserve to be saved.”

Dean clears his throat.

“Maybe I don’t,” he says roughly, his lips moving along Cas’ temple.

“You do,” Cas promises. “You do.”

Dean closes the non-existent space between them and kisses Cas. Unlike last time, there’s no desperation. No ulterior motives. He misses at first, catching just the corner of Cas’ mouth. Then Cas turns his head and they slot together. Dean falls into it, the heat of Cas. He aches and he aches and he aches, right in the center, but Cas is there, Cas is safe and Cas is safety. Cas is warm, and despite the burn of the summer heat he had to endure this year, he’d almost forgotten what genuine warmth felt like. Embers crackle within him, homey and rich and welcoming.

Beneath the covers, Cas rolls them so that he’s on top of Dean, as if he can read Dean’s thoughts. As if he understands that Dean needs to feel this, safe beneath and in front of him. Protected from himself in the cage of Cas’ arms.

Dean tangles a hand in Cas’ hair as Cas rocks against him, hot mouth pressing to his cheeks, his chin, his neck, his shoulders. Dean pulls at the hem of Cas’ shirt, and Cas breaks the kiss only long enough to pull it off, then do the same to Dean’s.

There are no more words to be said, but sometimes a soft “Cas,” breaks from Dean’s lips like a wave cresting on the beach. Cas kisses the tear tracts left on Dean’s cheeks, wiping them away with his thumbs. When Dean realizes this is what he tried to do for Cas all those months ago as he lay in that warehouse dying, he feels a genuine sob wrack his body, and buries his face in Cas’ shoulder to muffle it. Cas cradles him there, pressing his lips to the top of Dean’s head.

He stays like that until Cas’ light ministrations bring him back, tracing along Dean’s torso, the dark red lines that spiderweb across his skin. Dean is embarrassed and about to pull away, when Cas finds the untouched shape of the handprint on Dean’s shoulder. There’s hardly a sliver of moonlight to go by, but maybe Cas’ senses aren’t as depleted as he initially thought, because there’s no mistaking that gleam in his eye for anything but the awe it is. He lays his hand over top of it, and of course, it fits perfectly.

“Faded, but not forgotten,” he says quietly, reverently.    

Dean fits his palms to the sides of Cas’ face, pulling him in. He nips gently at Cas’ bottom lip, and Cas’ tongue darts out, curious, sweeping into Dean. Under the blankets, Cas shifts so that his knee is between Dean’s thighs, and it’s so close, that non-space again, even though they’re not touching. This connectedness runs through him, tugs him closer and closer to Cas, a corset pulled tighter with each thrust.

He hardens in his pajama pants, and he knows Cas can feel it. In fact, he can feel Cas’ own erection, warm where it drags, heavy even through the fabric, at Dean’s hip.

For the past couple months, sex has hardly crossed Dean’s mind. There was the occasional jerk off, and the aborted, hallucinated attempt at bar trawling for someone who resembled Cas only enough that it wouldn’t hurt so much, but for the most part, it just never occurred to him. Sex, while almost always a priority before, didn’t seem to follow him into the non-afterlife.

It all feels good, necessary. But even this, here, with Cas. Despite the arousal and the simmer in his gut, it’s mostly about having something solid to hold onto. Someone. He craves the touch of a familiar hand, the weight of a familiar gaze. And Dean isn’t as familiar with many as he is with Cas. It feels like it’s spilling out of him, like he’s overflowing with it. The surge of rightness, of comfort that suffuses him completely.

It’s not enough to drive away the fear, but it damn well tries. That bright something in Dean pulses, patient and content for now.  

Cas shifts again so that they align, twin heats. He has a hand on either side of Dean’s head, propping himself up on the bed as he stares down at Dean, just barely visible. He says nothing, but Dean can see the question in his eyes.

He trails the smooth side of his fingernail down the taught line of Cas’ arm. He nods, and Cas kisses him again, long and tender as he starts to move his hips against Dean’s. Dean knows there’s a button on his pants he could undo to up the friction, but he’s grasping at Cas’ back with both hands now, and he doesn’t want to let go. Wants to stay here in this dingy motel room forever, the Mark only a distant murmur in the back of his mind, Cas filling everything in front of him, Cas reminding him what it’s like to be found.

Cas comes first, sighing out an “I love you,” as he shudders above Dean, and the words fall on him, warm rain in the springtime. Settle into his chest, nestle into him, pushing him over the edge of his own orgasm, Cas kissing him through it while slight tremors shake him, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes again.

After the fact, Dean clings to Cas, tries not to let the terror that’s plagued him for months- for a lifetime, now- tear him away.

What he doesn’t seem to realize is that the hold Cas has on him is no less tight, no less desperate.

***

Cas wakes to an empty bed.

Almost immediately, cold resignation floods him.    

Then he rolls over, and feels a piece of paper stick to his cheek.

Still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, it takes a minute for the blocky handwriting to come into focus.

 

_Went for coffee. Back soon._

_-D_

 

He smiles, hazy with relief.

Then someone says, “Aww, isn’t that sweet.”

Cas bolts up, coming face to face with the muzzle of a pistol. There are two men in the room, one with the aforementioned pistol pointed directly at his face, the other sitting in the chair at the desk, casually digging through Cas’ duffel bag.

“So tuckered you didn’t even hear us come in, huh?” the one with the pistol says. He’s wearing a ball cap and has a wispy, ginger beard. “What are your thoughts on that, Eric?” he asks the guy in the chair without turning around to look at him.

“Oh, I dunno, Paul,” Eric says, tossing Cas’ bag to the side and standing up. He grabs the back of the chair with both hands and moves it to the center of the room. “I’d say fucking a demon can really tire a fellow out.”

Paul looks at Cas, considering.

“I think you might be right,” he says. “Maybe we should let him sleep a little longer.”

He pistol whips Cas hard enough that Cas hears the crack in both ears, and almost immediately can feel the blood oozing from his temple. His vision goes blurry for a couple seconds, but he manages not to pass out. Paul gets right up in his face, muzzle of the pistol almost kissing his forehead, one knee on the bed. Cas lists slightly to that side, following the new addition of weight, dizzy.

“Or maybe not,” he says, and he smells like beer and cigarette smoke. He inclines his head toward the note Dean left on the pillow. “We got a time limit, you see.”

The two of them manhandle Cas into the chair, producing a large roll of duct tape. Eric, the stouter of the two, starts winding it multiple times around Cas’ wrists, binding him in place.

“Who are you,” he says. “What the hell do you want,” though he’s pretty sure he knows.

“I’m Paul,” Paul says. “That’s Eric.” He leans back against the desk, surveying Cas. “And what I want right now, is to know who you are.” He lazily gestures with the pistol, and Cas notices that his free hand is wrapped in some kind of medical tape up past his wrist. Cas figures that’s why there was no shotgun awaiting him when he woke up. Can’t hold a two handed weapon with one hand.

“You’ve obviously followed me here,” Cas says. “Bided your time. Tied me up. I figured you’d at least know who I was.”

“We know who Dean Winchester is,” Eric says, stepping back and crossing his arms. “And now we know what kind of fag he is.” He tilts his head to the side. “What kind of fag are you?” he asks, pulling a flask from his pocket. He sprinkles what Cas assumes is holy water onto his arm, and when nothing happens, Eric and Paul share a brief look. Paul nods, and Eric pulls out a silver blade, stepping forward again to draw a thin line down Cas’ arm, blood trickling down to his bound wrist.

They try iron and salt and a host of other tests, and not a one affects Cas.

“So you’re human,” Paul says flatly. “You have any idea what you got into bed with last night?”

 Cas says nothing.

“You didn’t freak out when we were doing the tests,” Paul says. “Didn’t even flinch at the word ‘demon’.” His eyes narrow. “Obviously you know the score. You a hunter?”

Cas says nothing.

Eric punches him hard across the face, and pain blossoms in Cas’ cheek, mingling with the throbbing from the pistol whip.

“We been trying to find Winchester for months, you know that?” Paul asks, idly spinning the barrel of his pistol. He snaps it back in with a click. “Hunters are talking. Rumors are swirling. People are on the lookout.” A smirk crosses his face. “How you gonna feel when some asshole blows your demon boyfriend’s head off, huh?”

Cas clenches his jaw.

Paul is still for a moment, watching him with beady eyes. Then, just as quick, he’s changing the subject.

“We saw the black eyes. But the exorcism didn’t work. So we know he’s a demon, but what kind of demon? Other than a cocksucking one.”

Eric chuffs appreciatively.

What neither of them know, of course, is that Cas is probably more familiar with torture than both of them combined. Being reprogrammed constantly for his entire existence. Losing his faith, his family, his friends. Listening to Dean’s prayers every single night in purgatory but being unable to return to him. Naomi’s mind control. Being forced to kill thousands of copies of Dean. Metatron stealing his grace while he watched. Living under the weight that he was the cause of the Fall, that he’s been ruining heaven faster than his brothers and sisters can repair it for years now.

Oh, he knows torture.

“I have nothing for you,” he says mildly. “This is a futile endeavor.”

He’s certainly not unaware of the blinding rage that’s trying to tear its way out of him at the way these two are talking about Dean. But with his hands tied, there’s nothing he can do, so he keeps it in check. Weathers the storm.

Eric hits him again, and Cas’ head rings like a church bell at mass.

“So let me guess,” Cas says wryly, “You’re here with completely noble intentions, determined to scourge the world of one more beast.” He raises an eyebrow. “Or, of course, you’re here because you’ve already gone toe to toe with Dean and lost, and now you’re seeking petty revenge.”

 Eric hits him.

“There are much worse things out there than Dean Winchester,” Cas says. “Perhaps you should pool you resources and-”

Another whack..

“-investigate those,” Cas finishes through a mouthful of blood. Eric’s last hit tore open the inside of his cheek on one of his teeth.

Paul looks like he’s about to say something when the doorknob turns, and three heads simultaneously turn toward the noise.

“Dean!” Cas calls out. “Watch-” Eric clamps a sweaty hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. The doorknob stops turning, and for three seconds it’s absolutely silent.

Then, in a move that sends small splinters of wood everywhere, the door is kicked in, and Dean emerges, wild eyed. The smell of strong coffee mingles with the tang of blood, and Cas can see the two dropped paper cups on the pavement outside.

What’s left of the door swings closed, and Dean moves so fast Paul doesn’t even have time to get a shot off. Dean’s gaze falls upon him ever so briefly, and then he’s barrelling into Paul, slamming him into the large, blocky television. The pistol goes flying.

Dean turns to Eric, and a flash of recognition crosses his face.

“What, you didn’t get your fair share last time?” he snaps. He hits Eric across the face so hard he stumbles to one knee, and then Dean turns back to Paul, his gaze zeroing in on his bad wrist. He fakes a grimace.

“Didn’t heal so well, huh?” Dean asks faux-sympathetically, as Paul lies groaning on the ground. He bends down, and Cas can’t see what he’s doing, but has no issue guessing. A second later, there’s a loud, bone splintering crack, and Paul wails. “Guess second time’s the charm, huh?” Dean snarls at him, holding his head up by the hair before slamming it back into the ground. He stands, putting his boot on the back of Paul’s head and pushing, grinding his face into the floor.

Obviously trying to catch him off guard, Eric lunges at Dean, but Dean is ready. In a move that’s so smooth and learned Cas has trouble following it, Dean slips the Blade out of his waistband and in two seconds flat has it buried hilt-deep in Eric’s stomach.

Dean’s rage is palpable, filling the room like a sudden cloud cover, and Eric’s short, stuttered gasp is a mere raindrop. Dean yanks the Blade out of his stomach, and as the force of his pull knocks him backwards a step, Cas sees for the first time that Dean’s eyes are black as coal.

Eric’s body collapses with a thump on the sparse carpet, and Dean turns around, back to Paul. He bends down, roughly flipping Paul over so that he’s on his back. He presses a knee to Paul’s chest, holding him in place.

“Dean, stop,” Cas begs, struggling with the restraints, but they refuse to give. “Please, just _stop_.”

But Dean either doesn’t hear him or ignores him completely, swept away by the pull of the Mark. Cas can hear the death rattle gasp of Paul, and watches in growing horror as Dean presses the tip of the Blade to Paul’s forehead, and slowly starts pushing down. He screams, and it forces Dean’s hand. Cas watches him strain as he has to cut through bone, and then all at once there’s an appalling sound similar to that of a pumpkin being smashed, and Cas has a perfect view of the now sunken head of Paul, his forehead completely caved in.

Dean stands, covered in blood, and his chest is heaving, his whole body shaking. He runs a trembling hand through his hair, matted blood getting stuck in it. The rage is still sparking in him; Cas can see it in the set of his shoulders and the lines of his face. He paces furiously, glancing only intermediately at the two corpses on the floor.

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, and Dean turns to him, practically snarling. It takes him a moment to recognize Cas, and Cas continues in that same quiet voice, “Please come back, Dean. Come back to me.”

The fight made a hell of a lot of noise, and Cas can hear voices in the rooms on either side of them. Somewhere above them, a door slams. It’s likely someone has already called the police. They have no time to even hide the bodies. They need to get out of here immediately.

Dean stares at Cas for what feels like forever, his eyes wide. His grip on the Blade is still tight. He strides forward, and for one insane second, Cas thinks Dean is going to impale him on the Blade as well.

Instead, he just uses it to cut Cas’ wrists free.

As soon as he’s able, Cas is practically dragging Dean out the door. He grabs his duffel bag on the way out, stows both it and Dean in the passenger seat of the Continental, then peels out of the parking lot, hoping someone didn’t get a chance to take down his plate number. He’s suddenly, absurdly grateful the clerk last night had been annoyed enough to not even bother asking them to state their information.

He drives way over the speed limit for about twenty minutes, before pulling over and parking behind a strategically placed billboard advertising tooth whitening strips. Giant, 2D people smile down at them, and Cas is glad the back of the board is just wood.

When they finally park, Cas chances a glance over at Dean, but he looks exactly the same as he has for the past twenty minutes, bent over and head in his hands.

The car smells like blood.

Cas hesitates for a moment, then reaches across the seat and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean jerks away like he’s been electrocuted, fumbling for the door handle and practically falling out of the car. He stays on his knees, and as Cas opens his own door and rounds to Dean’s side, he can hear him retching.

Cas crouches down next to him, reaching another hand out, but Dean leans away from it.

“Don’t,” he gasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just… don’t.” He doesn’t move, for a moment just stays there, palms digging into the dirt. Then, with a groan, he falls back against the car, elbows resting on his knees. He stares straight ahead at the cornfield in front of them, husks dry and brown at this time of year. The sky is an overcast grey today, the temperature crisp.

Wordlessly, Cas stands up and brushes by Dean to lean into the passenger side of the Continental. He picks an old Dasani bottle of water out of the cup holder, then reaches into the backseat and fumbles through his duffle until he finds a relatively clean t-shirt. He shuts the door, then kneels in front of Dean, a bit to the side so Dean doesn’t have to look at him if he doesn’t want to.  

The water bottle is almost full, and Cas spills some out onto the shirt. Carefully, so that Dean can see him long before he arrives, he touches the fabric to Dean’s face, trying to clean off the rapidly drying blood.

Dean doesn’t react in any specific way, just closes his eyes in an extended blink and allows Cas to tend to him. Cas is silent as he makes his way across Dean’s face, doing a meticulous job for the materials he has. Dean doesn’t meet his eyes once. When he’s cleaned Dean’s face, he pours some more water onto his hand and runs it gently through Dean’s hair. His fingers are pink when he pulls them out.

Lastly, he attends to Dean’s hands. They’re the hardest part, owning the most potential crevices for blood to hide in. Cas maneuvers the shirt carefully over Dean’s bruised and battered knuckles, holding Dean’s hand in his as he does so. Dean is listless, his fingers barely twitching when Cas swipes across the sensitive skin of his palm. He does his best with Dean’s fingernails, though by the time he’s finished he can still see dark patches of red beneath them.

At some point while Cas is still cleaning Dean’s hands, they hear sirens rip by. First approaching, then passing, then receding. None of the cars slowed down, or even noticed them.

In the grey light of morning, the sun barely filters through the cloud cover, making it hard to tell how much time has passed. Cas follows Dean’s gaze to a limp scarecrow sitting in the middle of the cornfield, straw sticking out of its badly sewn seams. As they watch, a big black crow lands on its shoulder, pecking until it dislodges one of its button eyes. Successful, it caws triumphantly and flaps away until it’s just a dot in the sky above.

Dean rests his head on Cas’ shoulder. He closes his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

They continue to drive east.

Cas watches Dean deteriorate right in front of his eyes, and he thinks that Dean that is doing the exact same for him.

They’re both dying, just in different ways.

Naturally, Cas didn’t realize just how much help Hannah had been until she withdrew it. He tried not to think too hard over the summer about why he wasn’t getting worse, but he thinks he might have known the whole time what was going on, even if he didn’t admit or even consciously acknowledge it. Without her holding him up, he can feel the sickness eating away at him, sticking to his insides like glue.

Dean isn’t faring much better, driving in stony silences that speak volumes more than any conversation could. The terror rolls off him in palpable waves. Cas has caught him in more than one motel, scrubbing furiously to get the blood out from under his fingernails that doesn’t exist anymore.

Exhaustion sweeps through them, and they trade it back and forth like children with baseball cards. They’ve been operating on an unspoken agreement that whatever it is Dean’s chasing is their last hope. Their Hail Mary. Cas can’t be one hundred percent sure he knows what it is, but even if it is what he thinks it is, he has no idea if it’s going to work.  

A storm is following them to the coast. The further east they go, the angrier the clouds get.  Violent purples and blues slash through the skies at night and they spend their days in temperatures colder than the Midwest has any right to be in early October. They listen to the radio occasionally, and Cas has heard more than one newscaster comment on the bizarre weather patterns. He heard one woman say that this is the coldest the Midwest has been in October in years, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s their fault. If it’s not the storm that’s chasing them, but the Mark, opening up the skies behind them like a zipper.

Dean drives most of the time, and Cas figures that makes sense since it’s his gut they’re following. But sometimes, he catches Dean nodding off at the wheel, and that’s when he’ll curl his fingers lightly around Dean’s wrist, his way of telling him it’s time for a break. Dean will nod and pull over, they’ll switch positions, and keep on going.

They stop for food occasionally, but neither of them eats much. They both drink an absurd amount of coffee. Whenever they stay in motels, neither of them sleeps much.

Charlie texts him a couple times, updating him on her and Sam’s progress back to Kansas. The only reason Cas hasn’t mentioned it to Dean yet is he’s afraid to upset the balance, knock a domino over that isn’t supposed to be down yet.

They don’t talk, hardly at all. Part of it is that they’re both too tired for it, but Cas knows that’s not the only reason. He can feel the Mark pulling Dean away again, but he can barely manage to heft himself into a motel shower at night let alone come up with anymore words he thinks could tie Dean down. For the first time in a long time, he prays. Prays that this will work. That Dean will be okay, no matter what happens to him.

They drive up into Maine. They drive until they hit the ocean and they can drive no more. The day is stormy and slate grey, the water the same color as the sky. They’re the only people on the beach, and they stand side by side, just out of the tide’s reach. It comes as far as the tips of their toes, then slinks away again, leaving dark, wet patches of sand in its wake. About a mile down the beach on the bluff is an old lighthouse that’s probably been out of use for at least a couple decades. Even from here, Cas can see the dilapidation, silhouetted against the overcast sky. The small patch of grass around it is dead and brown, the rocks bleached off-white from millions of years of sea salt and erosion.

Cas shoves his hands in his pockets, tries not to shiver in the cold. He knows if he starts, he’s not going to stop. He doesn’t ask Dean, _where to now_? He only watches. Pays close attention to the washed out pallor of Dean’s face, the freckles that he can see even more clearly now on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes are sea glass green in the light that filters through the clouds, the circles under them the same color as the bruises Cas still carries on his face from their run in with the other hunters. Dean had explained, briefly, in clipped and distant sentences, his first interaction with them. Cas remembers that night, the night Dean called him in the bunker, scared and trying so hard not to be it broke Cas’ heart.

But since the night outside that bar in Montana, after Cas spent a week chasing Dean’s castaways in his search for Abaddon, that face isn’t the only one Cas sees anymore when he looks at Dean.

It’s another thing he hasn’t mentioned, afraid of what it would do to Dean if he told him.

Cas isn’t sure what happened, exactly, but he knows it has something to do with the night he was woken up by his grace screaming in his chest.

When he looks at Dean now, it’s not just the green eyes and the freckles and the curve of his mouth he sees. What he sees when he looks at Dean is how he saw Dean the very first time they met. Not the first time they met in the flesh, in that barn in Illinois.

But how Dean looked in hell.

Superimposed over the face Cas has known for years, the face Cas has fallen in love with, is something that could probably be described as monstrous. It’s Dean, but it’s not. This is a Dean who’s rotted for forty years in hell, who’s fallen so far into his own darkness that navigating his way out is nigh impossible. A Dean with skin as grey as the sky is today and eyes as black as crow. But not the smoky kind of black most demons are associated with. It’s space devoid of light. There is no depth to them, just hollow sockets that moan when the wind blows too hard, and the maggots who rest there to escape the elements. Flaps of dead skin are peeled off his face, revealing the charred, black bone beneath, and his teeth are… horrific. Jagged and uneven, yellowed and sharpened like fangs. There are shards of glass and bone stuck in his gums.

When they had sex, Cas could taste broken glass.  

But it doesn’t matter to him. Both of these faces belong to Dean, and he loves all of Dean.

“It’s out there,” Dean says, pointing towards the rolling ocean. A frigid breeze sweeps along the beach, fluttering the sleeve of his coat. His eyes are fixed on somewhere out on the water. “We need a boat.”

Cas glances up and down the beach.

“We’ll need to find a marina,” Cas says, but Dean’s not paying any attention. He’s turned away from Cas, staring at the lighthouse up on the bluff.

“There,” he says, and starts walking, leaving footprints in the wet sand.

“Dean, wait,” Cas says, but Dean ignores him. He’s drawn to this now, finally so close. Practically in a trance. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles.

Cas hurries after him, grabbing him by the arm and spinning him around.

“Dean, _wait_.” 

Dean stares at him with two pairs of eyes, one blinking and one not.

“What?”

Cas’ hand falls down Dean’s arm, resting just beneath his elbow. He can see the anticipation in Dean’s eyes, laced with apprehension. A crab scuttles between their feet, making a mad dash for the ocean. A wave comes up and sweeps it away, and Cas watches its red body tumble end over end before disappearing completely under the surface.

“We need to be careful,” Cas warns. He swallows, deciding he’s held onto his suspicions long enough. “I know you feel like this thing inside you is… is good. But we need to be careful.”

Dean watches him warily. Realization dawns in his eyes.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” he asks.

“I can hazard a guess,” Cas says carefully. “I didn’t want to place any expectations on you in case I turned out to be wrong.”

“And now you think you’re right? What changed?” Dean crosses his arms and Cas pulls his hand back.

“Our proximity,” Cas says simply. There’s more to it than that, but he’s mincing words on purpose. Then, after drawing in a deep breath, “I’d like to think I know what my own grace feels like.”

There’s a shocked silence while Dean stares at him, eyes wide.

“Your grace?” he repeats, stunned. “This whole time, I’ve been chasing around your _grace_?”

“I think so.”

“How could I-?” Dean breaks off and stares out at the ocean, his throat working. A fine rain has started to fall, adding to the already significant chill of the day. Over the horizon, the clouds darken. Dean clears his throat. “Why would I be able to sense your grace?” he asks, lowly, as if the water has ears and is listening in.

“I left a mark on you when I pulled you out of hell,” Cas hedges, and almost automatically Dean’s right arm rises to settle on his left shoulder. He wants to explain further, but he holds back. He’s not sure why. He’s afraid it might be too much. “I think it might be my grace calling out to me through you, because that’s the only option. You are the closest link my grace has to me.”

Dean swallows, breaking the eye contact again to stare out at the water.

“Well,” he says, voice strange. “I told you I’d find your grace.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Cas says. “If that _is_ my grace, what is it doing off the coast of Maine? It’s one of the ingredients that closed off heaven. You’d think Metatron would keep it close to him.”

“Well if he already did the spell, maybe this is the leftovers,” Dean says. “Y’know, when you’re baking and there’s flour spilled on the counter, you just sweep it into the garbage.” He catches himself suddenly, as if just realizing the implications of what he just said. “That’s a dumb comparison,” he says hastily. “Sorry.”

Cas shakes his head, trying to focus. “It’s apt,” he agrees. “But I’m not sure about this, Dean.”

Dean starts walking towards the lighthouse again, and Cas follows him, their boots making twin tracks in the sand. “You can’t talk me out of this, Cas. I’m getting into a boat and I’m rowing my ass out there with or without you, and I’m going to find your grace, wherever it is.”

“What if it’s at the bottom of the ocean?” Cas argues.

“I’ll anchor myself down and let a rock do all the work.”

“The ocean is _salt_ water, Dean. You’re a _demon_.”

That seems to give Dean pause for thought, but almost immediately he’s walking again. “I’m also immortal,” he says flippantly.

“What if it’s a trap?” Cas asks desperately, and Dean finally whirls around on him.

“I don’t care!” he shouts, right in Cas’ face. “You’re dying, and you shouldn’t be. Jesus, Cas, with the way you’re harping on me, do you even _want_ your grace back?” He’s desperately searching Cas’ expression, and Cas knows they’re both thinking about Dean, standing with his Blade to Cas’ torso in a rainy parking lot in Vermont.

 _Do it_.  

Dean puts a hand over his eyes.

“Jesus,” he repeats. “Jesus, Cas, this is gonna save your life.”

“I made a deal with Crowley,” Cas says flatly, and Dean’s head whips up so fast he swears he can hear his muscles protest.

“What?” he says quietly, and in that one syllable a million old wounds twinge, ready to tear open and bleed at the slightest provocation.

“I promised Crowley my grace in exchange for a cure for you,” he says, and the distress on Dean’s face grows and grows, until he can take it no more and he’s gripping Cas too tightly by the shoulders, shaking him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he yells, his grip desperate. He stops shaking Cas, but doesn’t let go. “This was your chance, Cas,” he moans, “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you.”

“If it makes you feel better, I reneged eventually,” Cas admits. “I didn’t want Crowley to cure you only to hear after the fact about some kind of caveat he undoubtedly would have tried to put in.” He shrugs. “As for my reasoning behind making the deal in the first place, I suppose I just had the bad luck of falling in love with a man who dies too often,” he says dryly, but it’s hard to push the words out. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cries.

He doesn’t know if he wants to die. Sometimes, he’s found, it’s just that it’s too difficult to live.

But he wants Dean to live. No matter what.

Dean’s expression crumples, and then hardens.

“You never should have made that deal in the first place,” he says .

“Maybe not,” Cas agrees. “But it was for you, wasn’t it?” He starts walking towards the lighthouse.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, carefully maneuvering up and over the gentle slope up the side of the bluff. It reaches a precarious tipping point at the very end, but the sides are easy enough to climb.

Soon enough, the lighthouse looms above them. Both of them are damp with rain, and Dean kicks in the locked door at the base.

Inside is just about as damp as the outside, and smells worse. Years of mold and mildew have built up, compounded by the musty smells of all the old and unused equipment as they sit and rust. The floor is covered in ripped fishing nets and braided rope that looks likely to snap with one more use. Wooden buckets that have greenish fuzz growing on the inside sit both rightside up and upside down, some of them full of water still enough to see a reflection in. To their right is a winding, crumbling stone staircase that leads to the dome at the top, where Dean assumes the giant light is either burnt out, smashed in, or both. Graffiti adorns the walls, but most of it is old and faded.

Against the far wall, hidden beneath a bunch of heavy, thick fishing nets, they find a tiny, rickety little wooden boat, along with a couple of oars. Dean inspects it briefly, and decides it’ll do. There’s nothing broken off it, but Cas eyes it nervously nonetheless. One good wave and they’ll both be sent sprawling into the sea, one of them human and sick and the other liable to burn away to nothing in the saltwater.

“There has to be something better,” Cas finally says as Dean starts yanking the nets off.

“You waiting for the Queen Mary?” Dean asks gruffly, shooing away a couple spiders.

“That thing doesn’t look like it’ll hold one of us, let alone both,” Cas says.

“Fine,” Dean says shortly, getting a grip on a groove on the side of the boat and pulling. It makes a horrible scraping sound against the stones. “Then don’t come.”

 “That’s not what I meant,” Cas says, annoyed.

“Then get over here and help me.”

Cas doesn’t move, and when help doesn’t come, Dean sighs and straightens up, abandoning the boat for the time being. He looks at Cas, and both of his faces waver in and out of sight. First he’s regarding Cas with his hollow blank stare, and then his eyes are full and wide and green again. Cas loves him so much it aches.

“Look,” Dean says, much softer, “I know how crazy this is, okay? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the fucking storm of the century on the horizon, either.” He brushes his hands together, walking closer. “But I’m going by your grace, here, apparently. This is what we’re supposed to do, I can feel it.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a man of faith on a mission,” Cas observes quietly.

Dean’s expression turns contemplative, even nostalgic for a second.

“A long time ago, Sam and I were hunting a reaper at a revival in Nebraska,” he says. “I met someone there who, uh. Well, I know it was mostly bullshit, but he told me-” he cuts himself off, dropping his gaze to the floor. “This is so dumb. It was so long ago. But he uh, he looked into my heart.” Dean tries to scoff, but it only comes out half-hearted. “I mean, he said he did, anyway. And he said I had an important purpose. A job to do.” He trails off, almost dreamily. “For the longest time- whenever I actually thought about it, which wasn’t that often- I figured he just meant the apocalypse Michael sword bullshit. But then I realized, that never actually happened. Never came to pass, or whatever you guys upstairs say.

“And now I’m thinking about all that crap you used to spew at me, about angels being agents of fate, and now your lost grace literally leads me right to its doorstep? Well, fuck, Cas, I don’t believe in destiny. You know that. But something brought us here, together. It hasn’t steered me wrong so far, and I plan to see this through to the end.” He focuses on Cas, his jaw set determinedly and his eyes fearless. “The Mark is gonna fight me on this. I can already feel it.” He grimaces at his arm. “You don’t have to come with me, but I think I’m gonna need you to hold me down, Cas. Call me back from the edge. Cause honest to God I think you’re the only thing in the world that can do it.”

Cas closes his eyes.

“Of course I’m coming with you,” he says. “Of course I am.”

Dean regards him for a long time, his expression soft. He looks like he’s about to say something, but is interrupted when a peal of thunder cracks much closer by, and he looks around as if he’s been shocked.

“Shit,” he says, “We better go.”

***

They wade into the ocean up to their thighs, holding the boat- more like a dinghy, really- between them. If Cas thought it looked small in the lighthouse, it looks positively microscopic against the grey expanse of the ocean.

He glances over, and Dean’s face is set in a permanent grimace. Before they set out, Dean dipped a hand into a wave that just broke, and sure enough, he had pulled it back with a hiss, trying to shake the pain away.

“Are you sure?” Cas had asked above the approaching din of the storm. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the wind.

Dean had only rolled his eyes in response.

“How are you doing?” Cas calls, shivering despite himself. He’s freezing cold now, unable to help it. The ocean in Maine in October is an unfriendly place, it would seem, and even more so for a demon.

Dean’s face contorts with pain as Cas holds the boat steady. It rocks in the waves even at this shallow depth, and Dean hadn’t been specific when saying how far out they’d need to go.

“Peachy,” Dean yells back, heaving himself up and into the dinghy. He grabs one oar, holding it by the business end and plunging it into the water, digging the handle into the sand to try and steady the boat while Cas climbs in at the other end. It rocks dangerously, but doesn’t tip. There’s only about half a foot of space between their knees, and their backs are jammed up against the respective ends of the dinghy. Dean pulls the oar out of the water, turning it around and slotting the handle through the small metal ring on the side of the dinghy. He does the same for the other one, and starts rowing.

The day rapidly darkens, and lightning occasionally forks on the horizon. Cas holds onto the sides of the dinghy so tightly his knuckles are white.

“This is a terrible idea,” he yells at Dean at one point.

Dean nods.

“Yeah,” he shouts back. “It is.”

Water sloshes over the side, and Cas uses one of the buckets from the lighthouse to continuously bail it out. It’s impossible to stop it from landing on Dean, however, and soon enough, his skin turns red and angry from the repeated abuse.

“If by some miracle we make it out of this thing,” Dean tells him in between thunderclaps, “I think I’m gonna try a low-sodium diet.”

Cas is too sick with nerves to laugh, and ends up taking a wave to the face and accidentally swallowing a mouthful of ocean water that makes him gag. The rain starts to come down harder and the wind picks up its pace, the waves now dangerously large compared to their tiny dinghy.

“Dean-” Cas starts, some kind of warning that he knows is only going to sound redundant, but Dean’s expression suddenly changes so rapidly that the rest of the words die in Cas’ mouth.

“Dean?” he asks urgently. “ _Dean_ ,”

He drops the oars and stares at Cas, wide-eyed.

“We’re here,” he says at a normal volume, but the wind is so loud it barely comes out as a whisper.

Cas looks around wildly, but there’s only water and more water. The beach is far enough away that there’s no way they could swim to it if something happened to their dinghy.

“ _There’s nothing here_!” Cas yells.

Dean smiles at him, and his second expression leers like a jack-o-lantern. For one second, Cas feels an insane jealously that Dean can feel his grace and he can’t.

“Oh yes there is,” he says, and abruptly stands up.

The sudden redistribution of weight shakes the dinghy precipitously, but Dean pays it no mind. He yanks off his jacket and the two layers underneath, then toes off his boots and peels off his socks. He’s left only in a pair of jeans, dark with water and full of holes. Horror blooms in Cas’ chest as he takes in the sight of Dean, shirtless and silhouetted by the dark skies behind him. His pale torso is burned red in some places, black in others. The skin is peeling, his burns shiny and wet with rain. It reminds Cas of the dried gristle he sometimes sees on cuts of meat at the supermarket, but that doesn’t make the animals who provided it any less dead.

Right in front of his eyes he watches the tendrils of the Mark start snaking out further across the expanse of Dean’s upper half, watches them crawl up his neck and expand from the lines at the corner of his eyes. They meet the burns head on, and even from his weak human perspective, Cas understands what they’re doing.   

Like his own grace, rotten and stolen, the Mark is trying to heal him. Something Cas won’t ever be able to do again.

He lurches to the side, vomiting all the water he just swallowed, sending it back where it came from.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice suddenly much closer. There’s a hand on his back. When Cas looks up, there’s two sets of black eyes staring at him.  “You gonna be able to keep this thing afloat till I get back?” He gestures to the horrific burns on his chest. “Cause by the time I surface, I doubt I’m gonna be much use on the way back to shore.”

Cas clutches onto Dean’s wet, denim clad knee. The last months flash before his eyes, the loneliness, the desperation, the sheer, crushing despair that was his constant companion.

“Please,” he begs.

Dean calmly meets his gaze, despite the immense pain Cas knows he must in, and it scares Cas more than anything up to this point. It’s acceptance. It’s resignation.

“M’gonna get you better, Cas,” Dean promises amidst a frigid gust of wind that cuts right through them. Raindrops are pouring down his face, getting caught in his eyelashes before he can blink them away.

The rain sweeps right into the set of his hollow eyes, and water spills out of them, running down his ravaged face.

Dean puts his hands on either side of Cas’ face, using his thumbs to swipe away the rainwater.

“Back in the warehouse,” he says, “I told you I would if I could, right? It’s rain, not tears, but whatever. Close enough, huh?”

Cas reaches up and takes Dean’s wrists into his palms, clinging.

“It’s not rain,” he chokes out around the lump in his throat.

Dean smiles sadly.

“Everything you are is so beautiful,” Cas says brokenly, and he doesn’t think Dean understands what he means by that statement, that he’s not just talking about the face with the green eyes, or even the face with the black eyes. He’s talking about the face Dean wore in hell, the face that’s swimming in front of Cas’ as they speak. He doesn’t understand how to explain a love that fills him up so completely, that the only thing that’s ever felt even close to this are dreamlike recollections from his multiple deaths, where he’s only sometimes dared to imagine that he might have spoken to God.

Dean leans his forehead against Cas’, his hands still bracketing Cas’ face.

“I want you to know,” he murmurs, lips ghosting against Cas’. Around them, the storm screams, and Cas doesn’t understand how they both haven’t been thrown overboard yet. “That when this thing takes me under, takes me over, whatever. When this thing is in the driver’s seat, however long that takes, I want you to know that it was your grace, _you_ , who kept me going as long as possible. There’s nothing in this world I wanted to hang on for more than you, Cas. Castiel.” He kisses the corner of Cas’ mouth. “I’m so sorry. For all this. For everything.”

He hesitates for a moment, and even the storm seems to quiet around them.

“I love you,” he breathes, and Castiel feels it instead of hearing it, down to his bones. “But I have to go now.”

He stands, and before Cas can get a word out, before Cas can even pull the air from his lungs to do so, Dean is gone. He disappears into the ocean with a splash, vanishing almost immediately under the inky surface of the water.

The storm rumbles on.

***

Dean doesn’t remember much about the fire that killed his mom, and sometimes he thinks what he does remember is simply cobbled together from things he saw and heard as a kid and the brain’s need to try and make sense out of everything.     

But if there’s one thing he remembers, it’s the heat. John got him and Sam out quickly enough that they escaped even minor burns, but he remembers the heat that chased them all the way out the front door just the same. The oppressive sheet of it that rolled over him like a tarp over a swimming pool, trapping him beneath.  

That heat has followed him his whole life, through nightmares and fireworks and explosions and even innocuous things like decorative fireplaces in restaurants and campfires. It’s not a crippling fear or anything, but it’s always sat heavily at the back of his mind, unfortunately one of the only constants in his life.

As he crashes into the ocean, he thinks of that heat, because until now, he thought all fires burned the same. Even hell wasn’t like this, because despite popular belief, hell wasn’t fire. It was simply about pain.

But this is something Dean’s never felt before. He can feel his skin bubbling, the sensation of a thousand different hot pokers going into a thousand different places. He watches pieces of his skin slough off as he dives, water catching them and pulling them towards the surface as he goes further down.

The pain is so incredible, so all consuming, that Dean doesn’t know how to process it. In his physical body, he’s never dealt with pain of this magnitude before. It eats at him, pulls him away from himself. Rips him apart.

Cas’ grace continues to call to him, but it can’t do anything about the agony that’s jolting through him. Now it’s simply waiting to be taken, nothing more than a jar at the bottom of the ocean.

Dean can feel the water as it splashes into his mouth, filling the hole where his tooth once was, burning its way through him. The deeper he goes, the harder his limbs spasm as they begin to lose oxygen. There’s tightness in his chest as his own stores of oxygen start to deplete, and despite the pain, his kicks his feet harder, sends himself further down into the murk.

With the storm and lack of light on the surface, everything below is startlingly dark. The only way Dean knows he’s going the right way is the pull in his chest and the water that’s still insisting he float back to the surface.

Dark shapes seem to the pass by him, but he can’t be sure if he’s imagining them or not. He never gave it much thought before, but he doesn’t know how this whole immortal thing works if a shark bites his head off or something. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that.

Every kick of his feet and pull of his arms is agony. He has no idea how much further the bottom or Cas’ grace is. He swims past something that cuts a long slice down his arm, and a smoky trail of red starts billowing in his wake.

His vision starts to blur and his limbs start to slow. With a horrific tug of his gut, he thinks, _I’m not going to make it_.   

His jaw aches.

He thinks, _of course I’m going to make it_.

He realizes now what this sacrifice means in full. Even up on the dinghy, with Cas, when he was saying what amounted to a final goodbye, he didn’t quite understand.

But he knows that this is it, and he figures if he’s gotta go, Cas is certainly a good _it_ to go for. This is it for him. Cas is it for him. He thought he might have some time, but he obviously miscalculated.

His jaw aches, and he gets it, thanks. He gave up a piece of himself for the Mark, and it’s time to pay his dues. Or to receive them.

He stops swimming.

The Blade, as ever, is snug in his waistband. He pulls it out. The burn fills him, oversaturates him, pours out of him.

The only way he’s getting what he needs is if he goes through the Blade first.

He runs his finger down the cobbled spine of teeth, and where once they were sealed firmly to the Blade, Dean now finds them loose, like marbles in a jar.

He plucks the smallest tooth off the blade as easily as one pulls a petal off a beautiful flower. Even the smallest is too big for the space it’s supposed to fit into, but Dean knows it’ll adjust. He doesn’t have time to think about what it means, or the pros and cons, or how Cas will react.

On instinct, Dean opens his mouth and places the tooth in the only open slot. Immediately, something digs into him and he involuntarily shudders. He can feel it unfolding throughout his whole body, teeth clamping in him with no intention of letting go.

But it gives him the strength he needs to keep going.

He fights it all off, kicks until he finally sees it.

The light.

It’s murky and dull, but it’s the only light Dean’s seen since he’s been under, and he feels that bright spot in his chest trip over its own feet despite itself, despite the darkness that’s currently making its home in him.

The grace itself is in a small vial about the length of Dean’s index finger. It sits snugly between two rocks, the bottom of it covered in some kind of gunky seaweed that Dean has to yank at to get rid of.

He doesn’t understand what he’s hearing, but he understands where it’s coming from. That white-blue smoke from inside the jar is calling to him, beckoning him forward.

The vial explodes the moment Dean touches it. The grace inside splits itself in half, one part streaking like lightning towards the surface.

The other comes straight for Dean, and then the world disappears.

***

The water is dark and murky one second, and the next Cas is practically blown backwards by the force of the column of light that explodes out of the water.

He recognizes it immediately, and a desperate kind of ache fills him, makes his chest feel like its expanded to five times its size.

Moments later, it rockets into him, taking him somewhere far away from the raging storm.

***

Dean wakes up, and the first thing he notices is that he’s not in pain anymore.

 _I’m dead_ , he thinks dully.

Then he remembers he can’t die.

He sits up, about to bring a hand to his head, then does a double take at the very smooth skin on the inside of his right forearm.

The Mark is gone.

He pulls himself to his feet in a panic.

 _I_ am _dead_ , he thinks wildly. _Somehow_.

 _No you’re not_ , a voice that seems to come from everywhere at once tells him. A wry voice, nonetheless. Dean knows that tone.

“Cas?” he asks uncertainly, and there’s no answer from the voice, but somehow he feels that great, cosmic nod that answers his question, despite the lack of bend in the universe. Everything remains perfectly still.

It’s only then that he registers his surroundings. He’s standing in the middle of a grassy field, the sky blue and nothing at all for miles. But everything is unnaturally still, and Dean feels more like he’s on a giant soundstage than anything else. Instinctively he knows he’s not really outside, is not anywhere in the corporeal world.  

“I was just drowning,” he says. “I was… dissolving.”

 _That_ is _what happens when a demon jumps into the ocean,_ Cas informs him.

“I assume we’re not in immediate danger if you feel relaxed enough to be an asshole,” Dean points out.

_On the contrary, you are still drowning and I am still dying. Think of this as a… pause. A momentary timeout._

“Does time even exist here?” Dean asks the sky. “What the fuck is going on, Cas?”

There’s a slight rumble beneath Dean’s feet.

 _You found my grace_ , Cas says.

“Yeah, I remember that part, thanks.”

 _Did you ever stop to consider that it was actually my grace that found_ you _?_

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There’s a slight pause, and it sounds like the universe is sighing.

_My grace can exist outside of me without any harm coming to it. I will Fall without it, but the grace itself will remain intact and conscious. The sickness that I have right now isn’t a result of me being without my grace, but because I stole the grace of another._

“So… just give up the grace, then?” Dean suggests. “Wow. Shit. If that’s actually a possibility I’m gonna be pissed we didn’t think of it like… immediately.”

The sky suddenly moves, like it’s laughing. As if Dean was watching it with binoculars and started jerking them up and down.

_No, unfortunately that’s not an option. As it happens, I’m pretty much out of options. But you’re not._

“We’re not having this argument again.”

_I hate to be a dick, Dean-_

“You never hate to be a dick,” Dean mutters.

 _But we’re on what you could call my home turf, now_ , Cas continues, ignoring the interruption. _So I’m going to ask that you shut the hell up and listen to me._

“Your home turf? What, like heaven or something?”

_Not exactly._

“Okay, well, _where_ exactly?”

There’s a pause, as if Cas-wherever he is- is thinking something over.

 _Look down_ , he says, and even though his voice is soundless, it manages to come across as quiet, almost shy.

Dean looks down, for one wild second expecting to find that he’d accidentally trod on the belt of Cas’ trench coat, which is ridiculous for two reasons. One, Cas isn’t here. Two, Cas hasn’t worn that trench coat in months, and wherever it is now it’s long gone.

Unsurprisingly, he sees nothing. There’s no belt.

“It’s just grass.”

 _Just watch_ , Cas tells him.

Dean watches. The grass is a yellowish green, almost to his knees. Its strands are thin and wispy, brushing gently against his jeans. He could sleep here, he thinks. It’s soft enough. Quiet enough. Peaceful.

He bends down and brushes his fingers along one blade of grass, wanting to see if it’s really as soft as it looks. For some reason he’s careful, delicate with this grass. He doesn’t want to accidentally pull too hard and yank it out of the earth.

As soon as he touches the blade of grass, the whole world shudders. Somewhere ahead of him, he sees a slight hill where there wasn’t one moments ago, but it’s not still. It’s rising and falling slightly, the entire mound moving seemingly of its own accord. It almost looks like it’s breathing.

The sky lurches to the left, and suddenly the white cotton ball clouds are skewed, like they’ve been caught on a record skip.

As some distant degree of realization settles in his baser faculties, Dean notes silently that standing in an empty field has never felt quite so _intimate_ before.

“Cas…” he says warily. “Where am I?”

The clouds right themselves again. The grassy hill disappears, leaving only flatland in its wake.

 _This is my true form_ , Cas says simply.

Dean thinks a part of him has known exactly where he was since the moment he woke up here, since there’s no mistaking the very distinct flavor of Cas his life has been spiked with for the past half a decade, and right now he feels like he’s just been dunked in a swimming pool full of it.

All the same, a kind of awe settles upon him, rocks into him like he’s just had his breath stolen directly from his lungs.

Of course, what comes out is a much more anti-climactic, “It’s a field.”  

_At the moment, yes. But “true form” is something of a misnomer. The essence of an angel is always in flux. This seemed like a very… unthreatening setting in which to make the introduction._

Dean swallows. He bends down, gently wrapping a fist around the same piece of grass and shaking it like he would someone else’s hand.

“Um. Hello, Cas’ True Form,” he says awkwardly. He doesn’t know how to wrap his brain around something as big as this, so he reverts, as always, to clunky humor. “Nice to finally meet you.”

 _You joke_ , Cas says softly. _But you don’t realize how true that is. All of me has been waiting a very long time to meet all of you._  

Dean straightens up, trying to process that. All this time, all these years he’s thought he’s known Cas and here he is, only properly meeting him for the first time. He feels the weight of that like something’s sitting on his chest, and yet somewhere, somehow it feels like someone is wiping a slate clean.

“Why?” he asks. “Why can I see you now and not burn my friggin’ eyes out of my skull?”

“I have a theory,” Cas says, and that voice comes from right beside him. Dean turns, no longer in the field, only to be staring at Cas in the passenger seat of the Impala. He’s wearing his old getup, the trench coat and suit combo that Dean pretends not to miss. Outside, a dark, indistinguishable night passes them by on a vague highway that Dean can only assume leads to nowhere.    

“Okay where are we now?” Dean asks, gesturing at him. “You’re back in your meatsuit but I doubt I could crash this car even I yanked the steering wheel off myself.”

Cas watches him placidly, gaze never wavering.

“This hasn’t been a meatsuit for a long time, Dean. It’s just a body now. Mine, as luck would have it.”

“As luck would have it,” Dean repeats flippantly.

“You could still consider this my True Form. I have to admit, it’s difficult to explain. It exists outside of science, outside of magic. Angels are simply born with the knowledge of what it entails, and attempting to explain it in words is… ill advised. It’s actually quite smart if you think about it. Keeps the state secrets, you could say.”

Dean glances out the windshield, and the small part of him that’s not focusing on this conversation is revelling at being back in the Impala after so long away from her, even if she’s just a copy. He has to admit, Cas got it pretty close though. The whiskey leather copper smell is a hard one to emulate.

“So what I’m getting from this is that you have a car rolling around inside you somewhere.”

A ghost of a smile appears on Cas’ face.

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“ _This_ car,” Dean says more pointedly. He meets Cas’ eye again.

“Does that surprise you?” Cas asks.

“It would be too easy if I said ‘yes’, wouldn’t it.”

 Cas watches him knowingly.

“So like… technically I’m inside you right now.”

“Yes.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows. “That’s pretty kinky, huh?”

“It’s all about perception,” Is all Cas says in response to that, but there’s a smirk in his tone that Dean definitely doesn’t miss.  Sharing frat boy humor with Cas is honestly not an experience he ever thought he’d live to have.

 It’s a short lived one, however. The reality of the situation seems to suffuse the car after that, and Dean can feel the atmosphere sober.

They both look away from each other for a moment, as if catching eyes is what’s going to tear this inevitably rickety conversation out of them. Dean would love to keep driving on this road that’s not real, seeing all the pit stops and hidden gems and real fixer-uppers Cas has knocking around in here, but he knows that’s not going to happen. Despite time not existing here, he knows it is of at least some essence. Eventually, all paused movies revert back to the menu screen.

“You said you had a theory?” he finally ponies up, adjusting his light grip on the steering wheel.

Cas suddenly looks hesitant, scratching at a non-existent itch on the back of his neck.

“I do,” he says, “And being reunited with my grace has all but confirmed it.”

“Okay, so what’s the sitch?”

Cas clasps his hands together in his lap, for one absurd moment almost looking like a church boy about to get disciplined.

“I was never planning to tell you this,” he says, much quieter, wringing his hands. “But I guess the feline is out of the bag.”

“Cat, Cas. Just say cat.” But Dean is nervous now, afraid of what Cas is about to say. He doesn’t want to hear it, but of course he will. He has to.

“It’s the handprint,” Cas says. “On your shoulder.”

“What? Cas, that thing faded years ago.” But even now, he feels a prickle in his left shoulder. Recalls how the Mark wouldn’t touch him in that one specific spot.

“Faded, but not forgotten,” Cas repeats from the night they spent together at the motel.  “The handprint itself was merely symbolic, of course. What I pulled you out of hell with doesn’t even remotely resemble a human hand. But it was also symbolic of something else. The bond between the two of us.”

Dean drops a hand off the steering wheel, rubs at his elbow. He bets if he took off his shirt and looked in a mirror right now, he’d see that handprint on his shoulder just as plain as the day he crawled out of his grave.

“We first met in hell,” Cas says. “As I’m sure you recall. Neither of us at the time were inhabiting human bodies. I was… this.” He gestures around at the car, at the dark, almost frightening shapes that pass by the windows. “And you were…” he trails off, looking at Dean almost pleadingly, as if he wants Dean to tell him to stop.

Dean says nothing, and Cas takes a deep breath.

“You were down there for forty years, Dean,” he says softly. “It was remarkable you were able to hold out as long as you did.”

Dean nods slowly, clenching his jaw.

“Right,” he says, bitterness clinging to him. It’s an old wound, buried already by a million other shitty things on top of it, but somehow it still manages to open. “I held out until I didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t blame someone for bleeding when they get cut,” Cas tells him, eyes gray and grave in the dim light from the Impala’s dashboard.

“ _I_ wasn’t the one getting cut,” Dean says shortly.

“I can stop,” Cas’ voice is gentle. “We can just let what’s about to happen, happen, and leave it at that.”

“ _What_?” Dean shakes his head, filing that second part away for the moment. “No, just tell me.”

Cas just looks at him for a moment, gaze so sad, so tender, so loving that Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Then, wordlessly, he inclines his head towards the rear view mirror.

Decades of driving have had Dean checking that mirror multiple times already since they’ve zapped here, and he hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. But when he glances at it this time, he immediately recoils. The face that’s looking back at him is one he’d almost completely forgotten, one relegated to his worst nightmares after his longest days. It’s a face he couldn’t bring himself to remember, the face of a dead man. It’s the _thing_ he became in hell, skin rotted and cracked. The black eyes here somehow so much worse than the black eyes of a demon, because they’re empty. As vacant as the dark windows of an abandoned house, expression as broken as the shutters that refuse to hang straight.

He turns his head, unable to look anymore. At some point, he’d grabbed Cas’ hand, and Cas has both of his palms wrapped around it.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, on the verge of gasping. Ice races up and down his arms, and even in this non-reality he can see the gooseflesh. Something hot pulses on the inside of his right arm, and he doesn’t have to look to know the Mark is trying to find him.

 “That night outside the bar, at the Greyhound stop,” Cas explains quietly, rubbing soothing circles into Dean’s palm with his thumb. “Was the first time I saw you like that, outside of hell. It was like an optical illusion. I saw one, then the other, than both at once.”

Dean searches Cas’ face, his own eyes wide and horrified and scared in a way he hasn’t felt or understood since he got torn apart by hellhounds. Cas looks right back at him, unflinching in his devotion, and it shrivels something inside Dean, makes him feel dark and dirty. He pulls his hand away from Cas’ ministrations.

“So… this whole time?” he asks, and his question comes out small in the multitudes that is Castiel.

“When we… at the motel where we…?”

Cas nods.

Dean puts a hand over his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters. He feels rather than sees Cas reach out to him, and he instinctively shifts away, protecting someone he cares about from a monster, from himself.

But he can only escape so far, and the moment Cas touches him he collapses into him, folds himself into Cas like he’s liable to fly apart at any moment and Cas is the only one who can hold him together. He clutches at Cas, and Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, murmuring something soothing in what Dean assumes is Enochian.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas murmurs into his hair, returning to English. “I love all of you. Every face you wear.”

“I don’t want you to care about that part,” Dean says into his neck. He presses his lips there, hot. The collar of Cas’ trench coat is kind of in the way, but Dean doesn’t care. He kisses that too.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I can’t pick and choose which parts of you to love.”

Dean leans his head on Cas’ shoulder.

“Sorry I gave you such shitty parts in the first place,” he says dully, and Cas turns to kiss the top of his head.

“The end product is worth it,” he says, gently teasing. “I promise.”

Dean grabs his hand again, threading their fingers together. He closes his eyes and keeps his head on Cas’ shoulder.

“Keep going,” he tries to say briskly, but it comes out meek instead. “Tell me why I’m seeing your True Form and you’re seeing my hell-face or whatever we’re calling it.”

“Like I said, those were the forms we first met each other in,” Cas says. “It would appear my grace reacted rather instinctively once the Mark managed to pull you close enough back to that state. It reached out to you.” Dean can’t see it, but he can hear the slight, shocked wryness in Cas’ voice, as if he’s just realizing what his words mean. “It was trying to raise you from perdition again, in the only way its current state would allow.”

Dean breathes out, long and low. Cas has always found him at his darkest, and somehow, he’s never turned away. Has not only found Dean, but _saved_ him, time and time again.

“Of course when my grace is within me, it loves you,” Cas says. “But even on its own, as a separate entity, it cares deeply for you. Yearns for you. The bond we forged in hell is not one that bends or breaks easily. That’s why you could hear it, calling out for you even across the country, even beneath the expanse of the ocean.”

Dean’s glad he still has his head on Cas’ shoulder, because now Cas can’t see the how wet his eyes are. Cas must know though, because he slips an arm around Dean’s waist, his fingers curling lovingly at his hip.

“It wants to cure you,” Cas murmurs.

Dean jerks back, staring. A knot of panic manifests in his chest.

“ _What_?”

“I didn’t think it was possible,” Cas says, “That’s why I never suggested it. But I failed to take into consideration that base connection we have, that I’ve already saved you from hell once. This time it’s less literal, but who says I can’t do it again?” He actually grins. “Think of it as muscle memory.”

Dean, however, feels like he’s falling.

“This was for you,” he says numbly. “To cure _you_.”

Cas’ grin falters, and then slips away completely.

“This grace hasn’t been mine for a long time,” he says. “I’m not a suitable vessel for it anymore. Both it and I are too damaged.”

An ice chip drips down Dean’s spine, freezing everything. The betrayal hits him fast and hard, double-time because he hasn’t forgotten Purgatory. Hasn’t forgotten Cas letting go at that portal’s mouth.

“How how long have you known,” he asks, and it comes out flat and cold.

Cas accepts the anger with a nod. “Long enough.”

Dean puts his head in his hands.

“You can’t keep doing this to me,” he tells his palms because he can’t bear to look at Cas. “It hurts too much, Cas. Too goddamn much.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, but he says nothing else.

“Don’t do this,” Dean begs. “Don’t leave me.”

Suddenly, he’s back in the field, except this time he can feel the breeze on his face and smell the earth below his feet. For one earth-shattering second, he thinks that was it, that Cas is gone for good and he’s alone.

But then he’s standing right in front of Dean, out of the trench and suit combo, back in what Dean’s now used to seeing him in. He’s wearing one of Dean’s softest and oldest plaids, a checked red one along with ratty jeans and work boots.

“I apologize for taking your clothes without permission,” Cas says softly, plucking at a thread at the hem.  In this light, his eyes are blue like the sky above them. “They made me feel close to home even when I wasn’t.”

The tears spill then, Dean unable to hold them back. Cas comes forward and wraps him in his arms, and Dean latches onto him, holding on for dear life. When he was seven, he got lost in a department store that John was working a haunting at. He remembers stumbling through the racks of clothes, the mannequins that were too tall and too skinny to be real people. It was after closing, and the place was empty. John had told him to wait by the entrance, but like most kids, Dean failed to listen. He cried for almost an hour straight as he searched the store for John, convinced he was the only person left on earth, doomed to wander lost and alone, forever.

That horrific feeling rushes back to him with alarming clarity, and he’s overwhelmed with it, nothing more than a small child stumbling around in the dark.

“Please don’t,” he mutters, one more time.

Cas pulls away from him, holding Dean’s face in his hands and looking him directly in the eye. He’s calm, with sadness trickling in at the seams.

“My choices led me here,” he tells Dean softly. “This all started because I wasn’t able to heal you when I should have.” He clears his throat, and for only a moment glances away. He wipes his eyes and turns back to Dean, returning his hand to his cheek. “It’s time to rectify that.”

“That’s not how it works, Cas,” Dean says desperately. “It’s not all one big chain of fate and destiny anymore. Starting at Point A doesn’t make Point Z your fault.”

“There’s no argument to be made here, Dean,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I can’t accept the grace back. It goes to you or it goes back into the ocean.”

“Are you lying to me?” Dean asks point blank. “Cas, if you’re lying to me about this and it could cure you, I swear to god-”

“I’m not lying,” Cas says, so earnestly Dean has no choice but to believe it. “I’m only relieved.” He looks at Dean, so soft he wants to break. “I’ve made a great deal of mistakes in my life, but loving you was never one of them. I’m glad this was the one thing I got to make right.”

Dean blinks, and a new set of tears escape down his cheeks, running over Cas’ thumbs.

Dean kisses him for all the times he should have kissed Cas in the past and all the times he would have kissed Cas in the future.

“You got to die in my arms,” Cas says, that same old wryness trickling back into his voice. “I’ll be sure to return the favor.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Dean says as his breath hitches on a sob, but he’s smiling, even if it wavers.  

Cas presses the pad of his thumb gently to Dean’s bottom lip.

“When you return, the Mark will be gone,” he says. “Like your time after hell, recovery will not be easy. But it will come. Sam is waiting for you. So is Charlie.”

At the mention of his brother’s name, Dean allows his heart to skip a beat, but he leaves it. There will be time for that later.

“Unfortunately,” Cas continues, and he has to clear his throat again. His eyes are red rimmed. “Like in Pontiac, getting to the surface will once again fall to you. Luckily, water is an easier medium to pass through than dirt.”

He drops his hands from Dean’s face, curling one briefly around Dean’s forearm where the Mark used to be. He presses ever so slightly, and then takes a step back. He regards Dean with the calm veneer of a soldier marching off to what he knows is his final battle, but his fingers are trembling.

“It’s been brought to my attention that, while I often announce my arrival, I fail to do the same for my departures,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. He swallows, and then smiles. It’s probably the most animated Dean’s ever seen Cas, but it’s so hard to focus when the tears have finally started falling from Cas’ eyes.

“Goodbye, Dean,” he says.

Everything goes quiet. Dean can feel the sob rip from his throat, but can’t hear it.

He meets Cas’ eyes one more time before the world disappears from under him again and everything goes cold.

***

The cold slices Dean like a knife as he’s plunged back into the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He feels a tingle, and looks down. From his fingertips, the last, weak tendrils of blue-white light are eeking out of him, dispersing in the water around him. Dean can’t help but wonder if some kind of magnificent coral reef is going to spring up in this very spot in the next couple weeks.

There’s a dull thud of loss thrumming through him, but it doesn’t really hit home until he catches sight of his inner right forearm.

The Mark of Cain, once so present, is merely a scar. Overlaying it, just barely, is another handprint.

Dean panics, a stream of bubbles escaping him, and his lungs burn at the freezing intrusion of saltwater, even if no other parts of him do any longer.

He swims frantically for the surface, his driving force to find Cas just as much as it is to save his own skin. As he swims, he feels the all too familiar bump of the First Blade against his back. He pulls it out of his waistband, glancing briefly at the empty spot where a tooth used to sit, and drops it.

He doesn’t watch as it sinks down into the murk.

The world above the water is still dark, and Dean can feel the thrashing of the waves above the closer he gets to the surface. Incensed, he kicks harder, ignores the grey clouding in at the edges of his vision. At least it’s not red.

His head breaks the surface and he gasps for air, sucking in greedy mouthfuls as he treads water, the waves doing their best to shove him back under. He scans the water, but can’t see their dinghy anywhere. Rain is pounding down, and the sound of water on water is so much louder than Dean ever realized it could be. He gets hit in the face with a wave, and has to furiously rub at his eyes to clear his vision. The wind howls, and Dean watches in horror as a moldy wooden bucket drifts by in front of him, half full of water. He tries to shout Cas’ name, but his lungs are raw and it barely comes out as a rasp.

Then, a wave passes by, leaving him with a brief, wide visual of his surrounding area before the next one comes. He spots a dark head of hair, and almost cries out with relief as he cuts as hard as he can through the waves, beelining for him.

Cas is floating face down in the water, and Dean tries to ignore the fact that this is most likely a recovery, not a rescue mission.

He grabs Cas by the back of the collar and flips him over, then wraps one arm around Cas’ chest, making sure his grip is firm as he starts to pull them both to shore.

Cas’ face is white as a sheet. His eyes are closed.

Finally, the storm proves useful. Dean would never have been able to make it back to the beach on his own, but he rides the current where he can find it, letting the waves pull them closer to shore. His limbs feel like they’re full of lead and he’s so cold he can barely feel his lips, but he pushes on, constantly readjusting his grip on Cas to make sure he’s securely tucked against Dean’s side.

The moment Dean’s feet hit sand, his legs go out from under him. He crawls away from the grey water, dragging Cas with him as the wind whips at his newly exposed skin. Seaweed drops off his pants leg as he goes, lying in a dark, slimy clump, waiting for the ocean to reclaim it.

When they get to semi-dry sand, Dean lays Cas out, feeling his throat close with desperation. The rain is falling so hard now Dean can see it bouncing off Cas’ chest.

Cas _told_ him this was going to happen, but luckily Dean’s become a pretty good selective listener over the years with having Sam as a brother and Cas as a friend. He doesn’t know health and safety sanctioned CPR, but he does know the Winchester version.

“C’mon, Cas,” he mumbles as he laces his fingers together. The wind steals his words, but not his determination. He pumps Cas’ chest multiple times, puts his mouth over Cas’ and blows. He goes until he’s terrified he’s going to break one of Cas’ ribs or even worse in his panic, and as he unlaces his fingers he thinks of the blue-white light he saw escaping by his fingertips back in the water.

Of course Cas didn’t drown.

He puts a hand at the back of Cas’ neck, holding it carefully in his lap as he puts his other hand on Cas’ clammy cheek. Cas’ hair is plastered to his forehead, making him look too young. The panic is trying to make him cold, but the adrenaline is surging through him, giving him the words and the clarity.

“Okay,” he says out loud, because he’s got to cover all his bases. His voice comes out sandpaper rusty, but he charges on, regardless. “Cas’ Mojo, you like me. And I saw some runoff back there, so I’m assuming there’s still some juice kicking around. Please, I’m asking you one more favor. If you got any to spare, send it Cas’ way. Please, just…” he bends over, pressing his lips to Cas’ forehead, abruptly running out of steam. He doesn’t have anything left in him to cry, but the dry heaving is almost worse. “Bring him back,” he begs, brushing Cas’ sopping hair off his forehead for no reason other than he thinks he should.    

He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to Cas’, praying, which is why he misses the sluggish light that briefly erupts between their bodies. It’s a tired light, the sweep from the top of a lighthouse as its yellow eye gets lost in the heavy mists late at night. But it pulses on, beats in time with the lethargic hearts of the chests it’s nestled between. 

There’s a gasp for air, and when Dean realizes it wasn’t from him, he peels back in shock.

Cas hacks up what looks like an entire ocean’s worth of water, his own expression mirroring Dean’s as he rolls onto his side, coughing.

Dean immediately has his hands all over Cas, checking him for whoknowswhat.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re alright I’ve got you,” Dean repeats, over and over in varying order and to varying success as Cas fights for his breath back. Cas fists his hand at the back of Dean’s shirt, clinging to him as the breath whistles in and out of him.

Once he gets himself under control, Cas pulls back so he can look Dean in the eye.

“Please don’t tell me you made a deal,” he rasps.

Dean yanks him into another hug, burying his face in Cas’ shoulder.

“Your grace likes me and I like you,” he murmurs. They rock slightly in the sand together. “I used that to my advantage.”

“The Mark-”

“Just another scar,” Dean assures him. He feels lips press against the underside of his jaw.

“You saved me,” Cas says, exhausted and dazed.

“Only after you saved me,” Dean says.

Despite the cold and the wet and the storm that continues to rage on around them, Dean and Cas remain on the beach for a long time, huddled together.

***

When the storm has blown itself out and the day has turned legitimately frigid, Dean and Cas finally stumble to their feet. Dean’s toes are white and his entire torso is covered in goosebumps, his nipples rock hard. Cas looks like he got run over by a semi.

They clutch at each other the entire way back to the car, mostly because they desperately need the body heat, but also just because neither of them can imagine not touching each other right at this moment.

They get into their car, and immediately Dean grasps for Cas’ hand. Cas had told him, while they were still on the beach, that this was it. He’s finally, fully human. For good. There’s not a stitch of grace left in him, his own or otherwise, and Dean had pressed a kiss to his temple.

Now, Cas looks at him, a strange, new light in his eye.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

Dean meets his eye, and for a second, the sentiment hangs there between them. Then, he sits a little straighter.

“Let’s go home,” he repeats.

Cas’ smile is exhausted and wan, but a smile nonetheless. Dean presses a fingertip to the inside of Cas’ wrist, the touch intimate and bittersweet.

And they go home.


	15. Epilogue

It’s a universal question, but it’s amazing what a couple variables can do.

_What now?_

What college to attend, what job to get, where to go, what to do, who to love, who to stay with forever. It’s all a ripple effect, stone after stone cast into a pond, each a large disturbance on their own, but still only a part of a whole. They layer each other like the rings inside a tree, each one distinct, but unable to exist without the one that came before.

A stone: His mom, burning alive in Sam’s nursery.

A stone: Sam, collapsing into his arms in Cold Oak, spine severed, blood dribbling out of his mouth.

A stone: Hell, and every single goddamn nightmare that followed him out.

A stone: Cas.

A stone: Losing Sam. Losing Cas.

A stone: Finding the bunker. Relearning the definition of home. Putting down roots, as fragile and intangible as they are after spending so long tucked away in the dark corners inside him.

A stone: Taking on the Mark.

A stone: Death, and all that came after. 

But now he’s back on shore, casting around for something else to toss into the pond. For the next big stone. He’s bad with aftermaths. Too quiet. Things aren’t tied up near as neatly if the story goes on after the big finale.

In the passenger seat, Cas is silent as he stares out the window. The day is still dark, rain falling from the sky in little spats at seemingly random intervals. The heat is cranked up to full in their stolen car, (they had to ditch the Continental after leaving two dead bodies behind in their motel room, just in case, and Dean certainly wasn’t complaining) though it rattled around for a good twenty minutes before properly taking hold. Dean can still feel the slice of freezing water in the center of his bones, the heat having its work cut out for it as it fights its way through his outer layers.

He asks Cas to text Charlie, let her know they’re safe and on their way home. Seconds later, Cas receives an answer and describes every emoji contained within painful detail. _A red heart. A yellow heart. A pink heart with little yellow stars. Some kind of round piñata, open and dropping party favors. A yellow face with hearts for eyes. A… pile of what looks like feces? It has a face. I think she may have added that one by accident._ Charlie follows up with explaining her and Sam are still on their way. According to her, the two parties should arrive in Lebanon within a day or two of each other.

No one calls each other. Dean gets the feeling that between the two excursions, there’s probably too much emotional gunk that needs to be cleaned out of the gutters before any actual sitdowns can happen.

He gets it, he thinks as he watches Cas out of the corner of his eye. As the adrenaline of their reunion wears off, as he tries to settle back into his own skin, he can feel other, darker things jockeying for the head of his line. Switching the black eyes back out for green may have changed him, but it sure as hell didn’t change the things he had done. The things he had almost done. Even the things he had _thought_ about doing.

And so much of it to Cas.

The shock is still fresh enough to be vague, and for that Dean is grateful. It’s cloudy in his mind, darkness seeping around the corners, but at the moment it’s only fog. Dean can wade through it for now, knowing that at any instant things can crystalize and he’ll be yanked backward by coal colored hands, holding him down and holding him steady so he can’t turn away, so he’ll have to acknowledge just how badly and in how many ways he’s ruined things.  

But for the moment, he watches the road in front of him. He drives and drives and drives, and the silence between him and Cas stretches and stretches and stretches. Their junker eats up the broken yellow line of the two-lane highway in front of them, and Dean catalogues how the closer the lines come to disappearing beneath the hood of the car, the longer they seem.

A couple hours later, Dean’s jolted out of a fit of highway hypnosis by Cas’ hand resting at the crook of his right elbow.

“You’re swerving,” he says quietly. “We should stop.”

Dean glances at him.

“Do you want to-” he starts to offer for them to switch it up, but Cas interrupts him.

“We should stop,” he repeats, and his drawn face is all the convincing Dean needs. They stop at a place on the outskirts of Tolland, Connecticut, and Dean doesn’t even think when he asks the woman behind the desk for a room with two queens. It’s been his go-to order after years on the road with Sam, and even if he were thinking at least semi-clearly, he’s not presumptuous enough-or even prepared to- think about reducing the number of beds by one when it’s just him and Cas.

Cas is dead silent throughout the exchange, following Dean but keeping at a reasonable distance as they walk to their room. Dean can feel it, heavy where it sits between them, but he doesn’t know what to say. He’s so tired, and he’s afraid if he starts talking nothing is going to come out but smoke. Something at his center is pulling him inwards, away from the world, from Cas.

Duffel bags are tossed onto the floor. Cas showers. Dean showers. It’s not like the hot water in this place is the hottest, or the water pressure is the greatest, but Dean doesn’t understand how he can leave that steam filled bathroom and still feel cold.

His own duffel bag is long gone, so he digs through Cas’ until he finds clothes that seem clean enough. They were once his, at least. Something familiar he can use to try and ground himself. He slips on the worn t-shirt and the boxers, and some small part of him expects that they won’t fit, and is surprised when they do, if a little looser than they used to be.

He crawls into bed, pulls the covers over himself and says nothing when Cas exits the bathroom and turns off the lights. He says nothing when he hears the sheets of the other bed being pulled back, and the slight creek of the mattress as Cas’ weight dips down onto it. Despite their beds being exactly the same, Dean manages to convince himself that his bed is colder. It must be.

The only thing he can see in the dark is the alarm clock on the nightstand, and the red LED numbers burn behind his eyelids.

***

He doesn’t think he was asleep. Maybe he was on his way. Maybe he just drifted somewhere far away.

He can’t remember when he started sobbing, but he comes back to himself in the middle of it, gasping for air that doesn’t seem to want to enter his lungs. They’re great, heaving gulps, but his throat doesn’t want to cooperate and he’s choking on nothing but the tears that are burning their way down his cheeks. All he knows is that at some point in the night, something in him cracked open and it hurts so bad he can’t breathe. It’s overflowing him, drowning him, and the sounds he’s making are too loud for such a small motel room, and yet at the same time this bed is too big, a never ending expanse, the sky on a slate grey day. He’s alone and cracked open and the misery in him flows like dirty water in a gutter and all he can think about is that even after all this time, he’s still going to end up falling through the sewer grate, going and going until he reaches a river, and then the ocean, and then he’s going to be swept away by the current he finally thought he’d outrun on that beach. Sunken and forgotten, like he should have been. Buried beneath the silt and the sand, hollowed out and used as a home for the fish and the crabs that walk the seafloor.

But instead, he’s here. Alive. Supposedly solid, but so empty. Insubstantial, still. It’s not like humanity is a round peg and he’s a round hole. Shoving it all back inside was undignified and rude and closer to trying to stuff more in an already overflowing trash can. It’s all dribbling out now, in the nebulous space.

His chest locks up with panic, and it’s only when he tries to move does he realize that someone- Cas- has arms wrapped around him. Cas has been here the whole time, for who knows how long. He’s kneeling beside Dean on the bed, one wide palm spread flat against his back, the other gently encircling his wrist.

“It’s okay,” he’s muttering, over and over again. Dean has no idea how long he’s been failing to hear it. “You’re okay.”

He’s too far gone to hold himself back, too close to the edge to try and pull himself away, too desperate to remind himself he doesn’t deserve this. He searches out Cas in the dark, clings to him like the drowning man he is. Cas’ shirt is another old plaid one of Dean’s, and it’s soft against his cheek where he rests his forehead on Cas’ chest.

Something garbled and choked tries to force its way past his lips, but Cas presses a kiss to Dean’s hair and shushes him.

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “You’re okay.”

Dean trembles. Tightens his grip on Cas. He’s working on dream logic here, everything hazy lines and cast in shadow. His limbs are heavy, his eyes itchy and hot. The beat of Cas’ heart is steady beneath his shirt, and Dean can’t remember or maybe never knew whether Cas’ heart beat as an angel or not.

He tries not to think about it.

Cas doesn’t change his tune, merely repeating variations of what he’s already been saying.  “It’s okay. You’re okay,” all spoken into the darkness of a shitty motel room, murmured into Dean’s hair, but spoken in other ways as well. The press of Cas’ fingertips into the soft skin of Dean’s lower back. The light drag of knuckles along Dean’s jaw. The lips that ghost across his face.

It helps, more than Dean could ever articulate. But it doesn’t stop the gnawing at the center of him, the regret that fills him to the brim and spills over. The shame swirls in him, somehow both compounded and rectified by Cas’ presence. He craves a touch he doesn’t deserve, and he hates himself for giving into it, but give into it he does. He’s afraid that if he leans on anything but Cas right now, he’ll simply fall straight through. Always the wisps. He feels like a recently doused fire, the flames gone but the ashes still smoking, still able to burn and scald and choke anyone who gets too close.

Cas rocks him in his arms slowly, and Dean wonders if he can feel his palms heat, or if Dean’s held him over the flames so long that he doesn’t even notice anymore.

***

Dean wakes up, still groggy. Early morning light with the strange, greenish tint of predawn has started edging in around the closed curtains, and he blinks blearily into consciousness. For a moment, he stares at the ceiling, content for just a minute to pretend that none of it happened, that he’s in just another shitty motel on a shitty hunt with his shitty back, and everything is going to remain the same melancholic hue that Dean’s managed to maintain for the last three decades. Not good, but not necessarily bad, either. Just the simple act of living.

Like a goddamn Scooby-Doo villain, he would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t-as seemingly always- for Cas. He shifts slightly beside him, simply enough to remind Dean that he’s there, still asleep but too visceral a reminder for Dean to ignore. A deep, aching kind of resignation floods him as he lies there and stares at the back of Cas’ head. His mouth gives a half-hearted attempted to pull fondly up to one side as he contemplates the absolute disastrous bedhead that Cas is sporting, but all he can seem to muster is a pathetic twitch of the lips that could just as easily be mistaken for a precursor to yet another sob.

He wants to touch, but he tells himself he doesn’t. Whether he wants to or not is hardly the question, if he’s being honest, and will probably never be the question ever again. No, the question now (and, maybe always was) is if he _deserves_.

Even before this fiasco he would have been a hard sell on the whole ‘deserving things’ shtick, but now—now he’s really done. He’s hard pressed to believe he deserves to still be breathing at this point, let alone seeking any kind of comfort from the man lying next to him.

Last night can’t happen again. He’s not going to put Cas through that anymore. He’s tired and he wants to go home and he feels so frayed around the edges that he’s afraid one pluck of his strings and he’s going to unravel completely.

He tosses back the covers and sits up, running his hands down his face and feeling the drag of his stubble against his fingertips. He pads to the bathroom, unwrapping one of the complimentary plastic cups so he can gulp down a few mouthfuls of tinny, lukewarm water, leaving only the vague taste of last night on his tongue. The water keeps running, and he cups his hands under the stream, watching it overflow the brim of his hands for a moment, before splashing it onto his face. He scrubs at his cheeks, his lips, his eyes. When he’s done, he can see the droplets that still stubbornly cling to his eyelashes.

He packs the car and tidies up and Cas is still zonked out, which Dean doesn’t really mind since it’s still unhealthily early in the morning and Cas _did_ temporarily drown yesterday. And of course in the middle of the night he also got stuck playing nursemaid to Dean, and Dean knows better than anyone just how exhausting dealing with himself can be.

He goes for a walk.

The world is still dark, the sun just stirring behind the horizon. The light is filtered through an already heavy press of clouds, meaning it’ll be another grey day today. All the leaves on the trees are still dark at this time, looking a dead and crunchy brown, though Dean knows in the light they’re all kinds of colors. Autumn came to the Midwest a couple weeks ago, but Dean hasn’t really been paying much attention until now. The air smells of the good kind of smoke, bonfires and hickory wood and the chimneys that are finally getting cleaned out after a summer of disuse. The scene of rain still lingers in the air, though the streets have dried in the overnight chill.

About twenty minutes out, Dean comes upon an empty playground that looks almost ghostly with its lack of inhabitants. He crunches across the frosty grass, passing by old wooden benches and rusty play structures, heading for the swing set at the back of the small park. The swing’s chain is cold beneath his hands and the seat is chilly against his ass. He plants his feet in the sandy divot below where he’s sure thousands of kids and adults alike have planted their feet before him, the chain creaking as he sways slightly.

He’s tried not to think about anything but the cool morning air on his skin, but it starts to seep in on his way back to the motel, his hands shoved into the jeans he stole out of Cas’ bag this morning. The dread starts to settle on his chest again, a leaden weight determined to pull everything down with it, and by the time he’s back at their room, fumbling with the key, he’s so disconcerted that he misses the lock multiple times, before dropping the key on the ground.

As he’s bending down to grab it, the door swings open and he’s looking up at Cas, still sleep rumpled and bleary, but there’s a tightness to his eyes as he drops his gaze down to meet Dean’s.  

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Cas says softly.

Dean clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, standing up. “You were still asleep when I left.”

He brushes by Cas as he enters the room. “We should probably head out as soon as you’re ready.”

There’s the gentle click of the door closing, and Cas says, “Of course.”

Simple as that, they’re back on the road.

***

Despite the exponentially increased mortality rate for angels over the last decade or so, finality was never really a concept Cas had bothered to dwell on. Of his multiple deaths, they often happened so fast or he was so out of his mind at the time that he hardly had time to contemplate them.

Even though he’s fallen before, even though he felt mortality creeping in at the edges after Metatron cut open his throat, Cas isn’t sure there’s a huge amount of overlap between what he felt then, and what he’s feeling now, sitting here next to Dean as they cut Pennsylvania almost perfectly in half as they head west on I-80. The sincere finality of his situation settles in his bones like quick dry cement, firmly stamping him down. He’s finally been pinned to the corkboard, so to speak.

His imminent, flesh and blood mortality isn’t the only thing weighing on him though.

It’s a lesson Cas has learned over and over again, that there’s a thin line between free will and devotion. Because yes, he’s free to choose as he pleases. But it’s not only himself influencing said choices. Dean, whether he’s silent as the grave like he is right now, or loud and boisterous and annoying Cas by singing along terribly off-key to one of his many cassettes, has always been and will always be a prime factor in his decision making.

And it’s this factor that Cas takes into consideration as he constructs the lie he knows he’s going to have to uphold for the rest of his days.

It’s lying by omission, sure, but Cas isn’t going to kid himself. He knows what it would do to Dean if he ever found out. Besides, what’s done is done. He’s human now, for good. So is Dean.

Autumn colored trees roll past the car on either side, Cas watching them fondly and thinking of Dean.

 _It will be good_ , he tells himself, and for once in a very long time, he doesn’t feel the drag of doubt’s fingernails down his spine.

***

They stop for lunch in Brookville at an out of the way diner that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the 50s, both ordering burgers and beers. When their waitress makes a point to talk about how good the milkshakes are, Dean orders one of those, too. A couple minutes later, a frosty glass full of pink liquid arrives at their table, along with an inconspicuous two straws, and the waitress winks at Cas.

“They’re _real_ good,” she promises, before heading back behind the counter, non-slip shoes squeaking.

Cas stares at his food, ignoring the sound of Dean unwrapping his straw on the other side of the table. A moment later, he feels something light and papery hit him just above the eyebrow, and he glances up. The thing that hit him- the straw wrapper- sits on the table, and Dean, who had ripped off only the top part of the wrapper, has the bright pink straw between his lips, smiling. It’s an uneasy smile, one that appears only when Dean’s trying to pretend there’s nothing to feel uneasy about. When Cas doesn’t return it, it slides off Dean’s face like the froth down the side of the milkshake glass.

“We’ll be home soon,” Dean says quietly, his tone awkwardly reconciliatory. Almost apologetic.

Cas stares hard at his French fries.

“I know,” he says.

There’s silence for a moment, and when Cas looks back up Dean is wetting his lips and taking a sip of the shake. His eyebrows rise, and he pulls off the straw, coughing. At Cas’ questioning glance, he nods to it and says, “It’s really sweet.” He takes a gulp of beer, sliding the glass across the table towards Cas. “Give it a try. Gotta start cultivating a palate somewhere.”

“What, Mr. Noodles and beef jerky don’t constitute a palate?” Cas asks coolly, thinking of nights spent in the Gas’N’Sip’s store room.

Dean clears his throat uncomfortably, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but Cas waves him off. It was a petty jab.

He takes a sip of the shake, and the sweetness surprises him, rolling over his tongue in a pink flood. His surprise must show on his face, because Dean parts with a sudden, sharp snort at his expression. Cas pops off the straw and meets his gaze.

“Well?” Dean asks, expectant.

Cas raises his fingers to touch his lips. He can still feel a dab of shake there, and quickly catches it with his tongue. Dean watches the movement.

“I’m… not sure,” he says hesitantly, almost afraid of answering anything other than positive, like he’s expecting some kind of absurd disappointment to cross Dean’s face. Instead, Dean just takes another pull of his beer.

“We’ll find you something,” he assures Cas, and for a moment Dean’s grinning at him like this is just another day, just another stop on the road to a hunt. Like the last six months didn’t happen. Like both of them haven’t changed in permanent and frightening ways since then. Cas misses that look, hasn’t seen it in a very long time. Something swells up in his throat, and he doesn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to.

And then Dean remembers himself, the reason why they’re here in the first place, where they’re coming from, and his smile extinguishes like a candle flame being snuffed out. He clears his throat again, wiping his hands on a paper napkin and then throwing it back down on the table as he stands up. Wallet in hand, he pulls a couple bills out and leaves them on the table.

“Ready to go?” he asks gruffly, stuffing his wallet back in his pocket very deliberately so he doesn’t have to look at Cas.

“Of course,” Cas says.

And they go.

***

The lie sits heavy in Cas’ gut, but there’s nowhere for it to go. He tells himself it’s for the best, just like every other lie he’s ever told. There’s always a reason. Always a justification. He likes to think he has enough self-awareness by now that he really does know what he’s doing, and he really is making the right decision in not telling Dean.

Of course, there’s no objective ruling in the universe that can tell him whether he’s making the right decision or the wrong one. Like all things, it comes down to choice. One way or another, he’s going to have to make peace with it.

They drive in turns, but Dean’s shifts at the wheel are longer, mostly because Cas imagines he can’t sit idly by for too long. Needs to be doing something, even if it’s something as simple as gripping a steering wheel. Cas knows that feeling well, the need to be in control after so long being out of it.

He watches Dean, and he wonders. He thinks he might have known this whole time, that the lie was coming. The Big Whopper. He didn’t know _exactly_ , because if he did, this whole ordeal would’ve been over a lot sooner, but he must have had at least the semblance of an inkling. Maybe he missed it. Maybe he ignored it. Dean’s always been too good at blurring his lines. Sometimes Cas doesn’t even notice when he’s doing it.

It is a relief to know that the regret he feels over the actual content of the lie is minimal at best. He’s sure that in time, that will fluctuate. There will be good days and bad. But the area where he’ll never waver, where he knows deep down inside where his soul would go if he had one, that his devotion to Dean is steadfast. His love, immovable. All else can be chaos, but that one inevitability will never cease, will never lessen. It is the rock in the river, the current of his ever shifting identity breaking to flow around it, impervious to erosion, to death, to time itself.

The act of lying to Dean is the thing that hurts him the most, but Castiel will weather the storm if it means saving Dean from his own martyrdom. He doesn’t want to watch Dean nail himself to anymore crosses.

These thoughts are exhausted by the humanity that now flows through his veins, whatever that may entail. As a human, he can no longer consider multitudes without at least a coffee break.

By nightfall, they’re into Indiana. Dean buys a potentially dangerous amount of Red Bull at a gas station, and drinks it all. Cas knows better than to suggest they get a room. By the middle of the night, Dean’s hands are shaking on the wheel. Without thinking, Cas gently plucks one off and holds it between his palms in his lap, rubbing his thumb over the rough skin of Dean’s knuckles. Dean doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

As they pass through Omaha, Cas raises Dean’s palm to his mouth and presses his lips to it. Dean swallows, but his gaze remains focused on the perpetually empty highway in front of them. 

Just past Lincoln, Cas kisses each of Dean’s knuckles on his right hand.

In Hastings, Cas grazes his fingers across the new scar on Dean’s arm. The new handprint.

When they hit Red Cloud, a mere twenty minutes from the bunker, Cas fits his hand to the scar on the inside of Dean’s right forearm. Without a word, Dean pulls the car over and rests his forehead on the wheel for a long time. His shoulders shake minutely, and Cas holds Dean’s right hand with his free one.

Eventually, they’re home.

Sam and Charlie beat them there, and Cas isn’t sure if he could describe the expression that crosses Sam’s face when he sees his brother for the first time. There’s the patented Winchester self-loathing, the smile, the pinched features that inevitably lead to tears. Sam practically collapses into his big brother’s arms right there on the doorstep of the bunker, and Cas politely tries to avert his eyes.

Seconds later, there’s a flash of red in the bleak, early morning light, and Cas finds himself enveloped in a hug courtesy of Charlie, her tears soaking his shirt at the shoulder.  

Despite Sam’s loud sniffs, he can vaguely hear Dean and Sam speaking. He catches a watery, “… believe you got taken out by stunt angel number three,” then the sound of Dean punching Sam in the arm and a sarcastic, “Yeah, well, how about you make sure I’m actually fucking _dead_ next time, asshole.”

Charlie steps away from Cas, leaning in to plant a quick peck on his cheek. Absurdly, Cas feels himself blush.

She steps over to Dean, poking him in the shoulder.

“Got any left for me?” she asks, and even though Cas can’t see her face he knows she’s crying again. Dean pats Sam on the arm, then turns to Charlie, smile bright.

“Always time for you, red,” he says fondly, and Charlie buries her face in his chest, barely coming up to his chin.

Sam comes over to Cas, pulling him into a sweeping, tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs to him. “And thank you. I’ll never be able to say either of those things enough. I should’ve been there to help you.”

Cas pats Sam on the back once.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to find you,” Cas says.

“You had priorities,” Sam says. He pulls back, and his eyes flit to Dean and then back to Cas. “And I’m more than grateful for that.” He claps Cas on the bicep. “You’ve saved us, Cas. More times than we could ever count.”

Cas smiles.

“Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters,” he reminds him. “Or in this case, I suppose, always happy to fall from grace for the Winchesters.”

Sam looks like he’s about to reply, chagrined, when Dean pats him on the back.

“I’m crazy happy to be home, Sammy, Charlie,” he addresses them both, “And I hate to duck out this quick, but if I don’t hit the sack in the next twenty seconds I’m hitting the floor instead.”

Instantly, Sam starts nodding.

“Of course, dude,” he says. “I think we could all use some sleep.”

Now that Cas is looking properly, he can see that both Sam and Charlie have dark, bruise-like circles under their eyes. He figures Dean wasn’t the only one too restless to sleep last night.

Dean pats Cas on the back as they step into the bunker.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, “I’ll show you your room.”

There’s a strange tightness in Cas’ chest as he follows Dean through the twisting halls of the bunker. It’s a strange combination of warmth at the idea he even has a room, and unfulfilled expectations of who he would be sharing said room with.

Dean brings him to room just down the hall from his own.

“There’s tons of empty rooms,” he says, a little awkwardly, “But I, um. Wanted to make one up for you, just in case, so I kind of chose for you,” he taps a clumsy beat on the doorframe with his finger. What Dean doesn’t know is that Cas is very aware of this room, as he learned the majority of the layout of the bunker months ago, in those initial weeks after Dean woke up a demon. What Cas didn’t know, however, was that this room was intended for him. The room is sparse but comfortable, the bed made up and crisp at the corners, like Cas assumes years of motel housekeepers have taught Dean.

He’s about to turn around and offer his gratitude, but when he faces Dean, his expression has completely changed. It’s no longer the jovial reunion of earlier, but a resettling into familiar lines, the eyes downcast and the jaw pulled tight.

On instinct, Cas reaches up to soothe, but as soon as his fingertips brush Dean’s jaw, Dean pulls away, looking miserable to have to do so.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

He turns and pads down the hall without looking back, his boots long discarded. He lets himself into his room and closes the door behind him, leaving Cas alone, straddling the line between the coolness of the hallway, and the warmth of the room prepared for him.

***

Sam’s been hovering in Dean’s peripheral vision for days, and it’s really starting to wig him out. His hangdog expressions are painfully obvious, but every time he opens his mouth and looks like he’s about to say something substantial, he slinks off again, tail between his legs.

Dean feels weird about the fact that Sam wasn’t around at all during his half year siesta. This whole situation hits a little too close to the Post-Purgatory drama of Sam not looking for him, and he does his best to swallow past it. Sure, if only Sam had picked up a goddamn phone or checked his email at least _once_ he could have been around to help Cas out. But he didn’t, and Dean figures he’s just gonna have to live with it, just like Sam will.

Plus, Dean’s not an idiot. He’s alienated himself from Cas since they got back, he doesn’t want to ice Sam out as well. He’s too tired, too rundown to try going down that particular road. Him and Sam are stuck in the muck. Cas, well. Cas might still have a chance if he gets his head on straight. If he leaves the two Winchesters choking on his Midwestern dust.

Not quite a week after they get back, Dean’s elbow deep in a pot of potatoes in the kitchen, mashing away. Charlie took off a couple days ago to meet up with another hunter to tackle a simple salt’n’burn, vehemently rejecting Dean’s offer for company, citing his need to take it easy for a while. Cas is hanging around somewhere, probably attempting to bring any number of his plants back to life. It had been pretty depressing to watch Cas walk around the bunker the day after they got back, inspecting each and every browned, dead leaf hanging off dried up stems. Dean didn’t have much to say to comfort him. Cas tried growing a garden in a practically abandoned underground bunker. Of course it wasn’t going to work.

Dean had originally thought Sam was off on either a run-run or a supply run (he hadn’t really been listening when Sam had told him), but his assumption is proven wrong when Sam walks into the kitchen, neither sweaty nor bag-laden. He is, however, sporting a pair of puppy dog eyes that immediately make Dean nervous. For the most part, he’s avoided any kind of conversation about what actually happened in the past six months, what with Charlie heading out and Cas seemingly just as content to leave it in the rear-view as he is. Sam’s been too scared to say anything, and Dean’s been counting his lucky stars since.

Sam stands awkwardly by the stove, hovering uncomfortably. He clears his throat.

“Something on your mind, Sam?” Dean asks, not without an edge to his voice. He doesn’t look up from the potatoes he’s mashing.

“I was just, um…” He clears his throat again. “Wanted to check in. You haven’t said much since you’ve been back.”

“I am fan-friggen-tastic,” Dean assures him, eyes still not leaving the contents of the pot.

“Cas hasn’t said much either,” Sam prompts. “When I asked him he said it wasn’t his story to tell.”

Dean lets out a harsh snort of laughter.

“Yeah, well, isn’t that just like Cas,” he says bitterly. “I’m sure he has quite a story.”

“Can you just- Dean, can you just look at me?” Sam asks. “Seriously, you’ve been staring at the floor for days. You still afraid everyone’s gonna see black eyes when they look at you or what?”

Silence drops between them, but the words have their intended effect. Dean stops mashing, shoulders curving inwards. After a moment, he sighs and raises his gaze. Sam is sheepish but evidently determined.

“What do you want, Sam?” Dean asks tiredly. He gestures uselessly to the pot. “I’m making dinner.”

Sam swallows, and Dean can tell he’s probably been rehearsing the incoming speech alone in his room like he used to do when practising monologues as a kid in motel rooms.

He holds out a hand, cutting him off before he can even begin.

“No offense, Sam, but I don’t want to hear it.”

“Dean-”

“ _Sam_. You weren’t there. And fuck, I’m probably mad about that, but I really don’t wanna be, okay? I just wanna fucking get on with it, kill the next asshole, load the next shotgun.”

Sam’s eyebrows pull together, and he looks flabbergasted.

“That’s not what you want at all, Dean. What the hell.” When Dean doesn’t reply, he continues, “And what is ‘it’, exactly?”

“My life,” Dean says, too loud, too fake. He feels like an actor during a fight scene, going through the motions, never laying a hand on anyone.

“I’m a part of your life,” Sam says. “Cas- who _was_ there, in case you’ve forgotten- is part of your life. Giving us the cold shoulder isn’t moving forward, Dean. It’s pressing pause.”

Dean drops his potato masher on the counter with a clatter.

“Well, now I am mad at you,” he says. “Happy? And you can make your own damn dinner.”

He walks out of the kitchen, chest tight. He can feel where his healed tooth sits in the back of his mouth, courtesy of Cas’ grace. It still aches sometimes, but he knows the difference between phantom-pain and the real deal. This is just a reminder.

On his way through the library towards where the Impala is parked out front, the leaves of dead plants crunch under his socked feet.  

***

Charlie is next in line to Talk, but she has the foresight to get him 1) out of the bunker, and 2) liquored up beforehand. Plus, Dean didn’t grow up having to deal with Charlie’s dirty socks and snoring like he did with Sam, and that automatically wins her some clout.

They drink beer in a seedy place just over the Nebraska state line, crammed into a tiny booth in the back corner because Dean may be on his way to drunk, but that doesn’t mean he’s under any false assumption as to why they’re here. Over the first couple beers, Charlie tells him how the hunt went. Nothing out of a hunter’s ordinary, she says. Kicked some ass, took some names.

The problem with hunts that run as smoothly as that one, though, is that the story doesn’t take long to tell, so Dean’s stuck staring at the condensation on the neck of his fourth beer as he feels Charlie switch gears with an almost audible clunk. However, her line of questioning doesn’t start out like he expects.

“So…” she says, sounding much less prepared than Sam had, which is pretty strange for Charlie, who’s always ready with a whippy retort. She drags her index finger through some beer she spilled on the table. “You know I was kinda helping Cas out while you were down for the count, right?”

Dean takes a sip of beer. “Nuts and bolts of it,” he says, which is kind of true. He doesn’t remember everything Cas told him in that bar when he had only been a demon for a day or two, but he remembers enough.

“I know what Cas told me,” she says slowly, “And obviously I know the truth now, so I’m just trying to work out what parts of his story were bullshit and which weren’t.”

Behind him, there’s the clattering of someone breaking at pool. Distracted, Dean turns around to look. There’s a waifish redhead watching the proceedings, pool cue in hand, and Dean’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t really look like that woman whose boyfriend he beat to a pulp on a pool table strikingly similar to this one, but then again Dean figures she doesn’t have to. He can fill in the blanks on his own. He was there.

 _He was a dick_ , he tells himself. _He had it coming_.

Which is true, in fact, for the majority of the people Dean fucked up as a demon. But of course, it’s not really about them. The guilt and the emptiness that eats away at Dean are old demons, so to speak. It isn’t even necessarily the fact that Dean _did_ these things, but that he always had the _potential_ to. To know that that those kinds of thoughts and that kind of violence is constantly just under the surface, simply waiting to manifest, rots him. Makes him old. Makes him tired. Makes him scared.

He can’t really remember what life was like before he went to hell, but sometimes he wonders. Maybe hell cracked something inside him that never should have been opened. Maybe it simply wormed its way into his heart, and despite his assertion otherwise, Cas didn’t get there in time. He remembers when he was a kid, hearing teenagers who liked trying to scare those younger than them, telling him the urban legend about spiders crawling into your ear at night and laying eggs in your brain. You couldn’t even feel it. Then, months later, whether you were sitting in class or riding your bike or chewing your gum, you’d feel a tickle, and the newly hatched baby spiders would just come pouring out of every orifice.

Hell laid its eggs in him. He thinks. He hopes. It’s more comforting to believe that than to think that this is just who he is. That he was turned into something, as opposed to just being something.

He doesn’t want to imagine that there’s a grey area. He doesn’t want to get lost in the fog. In the smoke.

He takes another slug of beer.

“Well, what was his story?” he asks. He knows some of it, but he bets Charlie remembers better than he does.

Charlie fixes him with a skeptical gaze, eyebrows raised. “That he confessed feelings for you and you bailed out like a teenage runaway?”

Dean grips his beer.

“Those are both true statements,” he allows. “But they ain’t connected to each other.”

Charlie nods slowly.

“Look, Dean,” she says, “Tell me to butt out, and I’ll butt out. But what I’m getting at here is that Cas implied those feelings weren’t returned.” She glances at him pointedly. “Now, granted, I don’t have an all access pass to your brain, but I _have_ gotten significantly drunk with you a few times. You haven’t ever spelled it out or anything, but…” she shrugs. “Y’know. I’m pretty gay. I pick up on stuff.”

The back of his neck prickles and he feels his cheeks go hot, as if all the alcohol has decided on a one way ticket to his face. He stares hard at his beer bottle, picking at the dewy label with his thumb nail. Charlie waits patiently for him to answer, going up to the bar to grab them another round. As soon as she slides back into her seat across from him, two beers in hand, he says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Charlie slides him the beer across the table. “Why not?” she asks.

“It just… doesn’t. Fuck. I don’t know.”

“Cause you think it would never work?” Charlie guesses.

“Because it’s never going to happen,” Dean says lowly, but something in his voice must give him away because Charlie’s eyes widen slightly and realization dawns on her face.

“Oh…” she says quietly. “Something already did happen, didn’t it.”

Dean drops his head once in confirmation, and there’s a concerned exhale from across the table.

“And it happened when you were… y’know.”

He nods again.

“Fuck,” Charlie breathes.

Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. Exhaustion is creeping in at the edges. “Charlie, I love you like a sister. You know that. And if I could explain this to you better, I would. But I’ve just got so much _shit_ piled up, I could never...” he shakes his head tiredly. “I could never ask anyone to try and wade through it.”

“‘It’s not you it’s me’, huh?” she says, corner of her mouth twitching briefly. “Classic.”

“It’s the truth,” he says simply. He’s not good for anyone, and every time he looks back and takes stock of himself, he only finds more evidence to support that statement.

The corners of Charlie’s mouth pull down, and she sighs despondently.

“We all have our shit,” she says frankly. “I’m not saying it’s comparable, and I’m not saying my shit stinks any more than yours does. You’ve been through like, six lifetimes worth of misery. I get it as much as a noob like me can.” She eyes him shrewdly. “But, seriously.  Dean. Far be it from me to contextualize your relationship with an angel of the lord, but he did introduce himself by rescuing you from hell. And he did just give up his grace to cure you from rampant demonism. As far as shit goes, that’s already some pretty heavy hitting.”

Dean takes another gulp of beer, and changes the subject.

***

He trawls around the bunker one afternoon, searching for a map of the place. As fate would have it, he manages to find what he’s looking for while searching for the map that he was going to use to locate said destination, so he abandons that search entirely as he pushes into the half-hidden room, long in disuse. He surveys the place, running his hand across soot covered windows (the first he’s ever come across in the bunker, as it so happens) making a mental to do list. He takes out his phone to orient himself, and based on the location of the windows and the direction they’re facing, he thinks they might just do the trick.

He spends the next couple of days completely gutting the room, then cleaning it from top to bottom. The floor gets swept, then every single surface gets scrubbed. There are some counters Dean douses in cleaning chemicals, and the windows take some serious Windex. He sweeps away more dead spiders than he can count, and removes a couple dead rats from the corners. It’s not a huge room, and he spends most of his free time working on it to keep himself busy. He does zero decorating, save for one thing that’s more instructional than anything.

On the counter, he leaves an Ivy plant in a small pot.

He goes and finds that map eventually, locating the room on it and circling it in black sharpie. He writes, _bring water_ , and stuffs the folded map under Cas’ bedroom door.  

He walks away without knocking, ignoring every instinct in his body that’s begging for him to do so.

***

Dean has a very good track record of not talking about his feelings. Sam loves to tell him so. Anyone who he’s ever been remotely close with has loved to tell him so. He’s certainly not going to argue that point.

Of course, not talking about feelings doesn’t equal not having them, and Dean has them in spades. Dean reluctantly overflows with feelings so strong he’s afraid he’ll drown in them half the time. On the other hand, if he ever actually let them spill, he’s terrified at what they would leave behind. He’s terrified they wouldn’t stop.

He’s compensated for this over the years by simply leaking at the seams. People don’t blame a pipe for leaking. They just patch it up and move on. Dean has liberally applied this strategy over the years, and hey, he’s still walking.

Vacant, maybe. But still walking.

It’s been less than an hour since he slid the map under Cas’ door, and he’s since migrated to the library where he’s helping Sam catalogue some of the more arcane of the Men of Letters’ tomes. Sam had looked gobsmacked when he’d offered to help, but quickly covered it up and pulled out a chair for him. Dean knows that eventually Sam’ll stop acting like a spooked dog around him, but for now he’s kind of glad for the tentative silence. Like the room he just fixed up for Cas, he’s glad to have something to keep his mind focused on. Brooding in his room makes him feel useless and shitty, and he’s always felt closer to the precipice whenever he’s alone too long. He doesn’t need to talk, necessarily. He just needs to know that someone near him is breathing. That, if need be, they can confirm that he does, in fact, exist. It’s just so hard to convince himself that he does, sometimes. Especially these days.

The time since he and Cas arrived back at the bunker has gone by in fits and starts. Hours blur together, but minutes feel gluttonously stretched out, thin and quivering as they pass right in front of him. It’s all had a sense of surrealism to it, the kind of haziness that’s had Dean pinching himself more than once just to make sure this isn’t all a dream.

He would be more frightened, afraid he got dropped into an alternate reality or slipped into a coma somewhere along the line, except he’s dealt with this before. The years he was on his own after Sam left for Stanford, a significant amount of time after he came back from hell, during the apocalypse, the majority of his time at Lisa’s, after Cas died, the list goes on and on. In fact, it’s harder for him to pin down the times he didn’t feel like that, as opposed to the times he did. The list is much shorter that way.

It’s hard to believe that just over a week ago, he and Cas sat on that freezing cold beach, clinging to each other. Even in the shock, even in the cold, Dean thinks he might have known that was it. Taking one last, greedy look at what he could’ve had if he weren’t so damaged, if he were less broken. If he were something deserving of all he knows Cas could give.

As if summoned by his thoughts alone, Dean looks up at the sound of angry steps entering the library. Beside him and with a crinkle of old parchment, Sam looks up as well.

Cas storms into view, looking exhausted and very, very mad. Balled in his left hand is what Dean assumes is the map he left under his door. Cas hasn’t looked this animated in days, his eyes clear and angry, his stride purposeful once more. As soon as he reaches the table, he slams the paper down on it, hard enough to send one of Sam’s pens rolling off the desk.

“What are you doing?” he snaps at Dean, glare icy. His gaze doesn’t waver, but Dean doesn’t miss the fact that Cas’ anger is only a brittle layer of ice over a rushing river in winter. He can already feel the torrent under Cas’ skin from here.

“Helping… Sam?” Dean offers.

Immediately, there’s a scraping of chair legs, and Sam is standing up, gathering his papers with him.

“Not anymore,” he says. He tucks his book under his arm, not even bothering to drop an excuse before leaving the room. Cas doesn’t even watch him go, just waits until, from somewhere much deeper in the bunker, they hear a door slam.   

“Don’t play dumb,” he growls, brandishing the map in his hand. “What the fuck do you want from me, Dean? I’ve been packing my shit for the last twenty four hours and I come back to _this_?” There’s a note of hysteria underlining his voice, something new and fragile.

Dean’s stomach plummets.

“Packing?” he asks quietly, feeling a kind of numbness crawl through his limbs.

Cas swallows hard, sighing tightly before he nods.

“Yes,” he says, in that way people always do when they aren’t trying to lose it. “I may be newly human, Dean, but I’m not an idiot. I know when I’m not welcome somewhere.”

Dean stands up like he’s been jolted to the position, on legs he can barely feel.

“That’s not what this is, Cas,” he manages, practically tripping over his own tongue, the old deep seated fear of abandonment kicking back in with a screeching of tires.

Cas shakes his head, the tips of his fingers pressed to his temple like he has a migraine.

“I thought I could do it,” he says lowly, punctuating his statement with a short, hollow laugh. “I convinced myself I could come back here and be okay with nothing changing…” he taps a knuckle on the map, and for a moment his expression is completely open, barren and dejected. “But as we both well know, I’m very good at lying to myself.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. It feels like someone jabbed his brain with a needle full of novocaine.

“You can’t go,” he says dumbly, “Where are you gonna go?”

Cas shrugs.

“I found a place before. I can find a place again.”

“ _Why_?”

Cas wets his lips, dropping his gaze to the floor for a moment before looking back up at Dean.

“‘Mixed signals’, I think is the term generally used,” he says ruefully. “Dean, I can’t…” He takes a breath. “Dean. You pull close, and then you move away. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it was when you were…” He trails off. “These past few months. That’s how it is now.” He slides the map across the table to Dean, and Dean doesn’t know how he picks up on it with all the noise going on in his own head, but Cas’ hand is trembling. He retrieves it, pulls his arm back to his side. “I’m sorry,” he says, the waver making itself known in his voice as well. “The situation between us may not have changed, but I have. I’m too selfish now.” He glances away from Dean. “I want too much.”

 He starts to turn, like this is the end of their conversation, and Dean can feel this mountainside crumbling dangerously beneath him, his footing rocky. Behind him, there’s only open air.

The fear punches out of him, masquerading as anger and completely unjustified as he scrabbles for a handhold.

“What, so you chase my dumb ass back and forth across the country for _six months_ and you’re just gonna give up now? Just walk away?”

Half-turned, Cas stops dead in his tracks, the line of his back going taut. He turns back, watching Dean incredulously. Then, his eyes narrow.

“Give up’?” he repeats quietly, the malice in his voice clear. He takes a measured step forward, somehow keeping it all meticulously contained despite his newfound humanity. Next to him, Dean feels particularly grotesque. Sloppy. “You could never comprehend what I’ve already given up. The sacrifices I’ve made for this world. For _you_.” The word is so pointed it may as well have a barbed edge, his intention clear. It only makes Dean feel worse. He lifts one hand to rub at his temples and braces himself on the back of his chair with the other.

“That’s what I don’t understand,” he says. The ache swirls inside him. “What kind of Podunk backwoods redneck kind of celestial being do you gotta be to think that I could ever be--” he stumbles over his words, too many coming to mind at once.

“-Anything,” he ends up on. He can’t look at Cas when he says it. He wants to evaporate. He wants to disappear. He doesn’t want to be real.

Realization dawns on Cas’ face.

There’s a moment of silence, and then a gentle hand comes to rest on Dean’s cheek. Automatically, Dean wants to burrow into the touch, but he forces himself to look up instead, meeting Cas’ gaze. The ice in his eyes has melted, the waters tropical once more.

Worse, he looks like he understands.

“You can’t be talking about me,” he says, conceding but wry. His hand is soft on Dean’s face. “I’m not an angel anymore. I have to admit, I would be… disconcerted if I learned you were cavorting with another celestial being without telling me.”

Dean huffs, too tired to resist Cas’ touch. He leans into it.

“For the record,” Cas continues, his thumb stroking across Dean’s cheek. “I think that Podunk backwoods redneck human being might be onto something. Perhaps we should investigate his claims further.”

Dean swallows, bringing a hand up to cover Cas’ where it’s held to his face.

“Cas, there’s just… so much that I don’t know how to say,” Dean admits. “I fucked you over, time and time again. I hurt you. Your grace is gone now, because of me. I can’t be okay with any of that.”

“So what was your plan?” Cas asks. He takes another step forward, bringing his torso almost flush with Dean’s. “Were we just going to coexist in the same place and stop saying good morning to each other? Were you going to draw a line down the center of the bunker and force us to pick sides?”

Dean shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I was just… doing what I thought had to be done.”

Cas nods sagely. “That’s always worked out well for us in the past,” he says, straight-faced. Then he adds, “Martyrdom may be revered in the Saints, Dean, but when it comes to someone I love like I love you, I have to say, it’s more of a hindrance than anything.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, speak for yourself,” he says.

Cas doesn’t deny it, just smiles sadly.

“I’m sorry for storming in here like that,” he says, quiet again, “You’re right, to an extent. It’s been tough since we got back, and I’ve been presumptuous about what all this has meant for our relationship. I’ve been trying to parse out what exactly it means, now that I’m permanently human, but clarity seems unwilling to come for the time being. I guess that’s the point, though, isn’t it?” One side of his mouth pulls up. “The beauty of mortality, I suppose. I won’t have to spend eternity trying to find an answer.”

Dean is a little dumbfounded by that, trying to find a response that at least halfway articulates what he’s feeling.

When he can’t come up with anything, Cas leans forward carefully, loudly telegraphing his intent. His lips are gentle and hesitant against Dean’s. Still a little gobsmacked, Dean kisses back. It’s quiet, tender enough that Dean can feel the emotion balloon in his throat.

After a moment, Cas pulls away, searching Dean’s face. “Forgive me for indulging my own selfish tendencies.”

It takes Dean a second, but he pushes it aside, even managing to muster up a smile. Something very small blooms hopefully in his chest. It’s fragile, but it’s there.  

“Please,” he says, “Indulge away.”

***

Dean leads Cas to his bedroom, the hesitation clear in his shoulders. Before they cross the threshold to his room, Cas pulls his hand out of Dean’s grasp. When Dean turns around, Cas meets his eye.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. He needs Dean to know. He needs to make this clear, because he knows it’s not always going to be smooth sailing. He’s going to have bad days where he lashes out. Where he blames Dean for what happened.

He’s not justifying it, but he’s setting a precedent. This is the foundation he will always return to. The rock solid base they will build themselves on.

Dean drops his gaze for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do. More than I could ever repay.”

“I made that choice of my own accord. Because of my love for you, yes. But it’s _my_ love. Unfortunately for your wide streak of self-loathing, you don’t get to tell me what to do with that. I want you to hear this, Dean. I want you to understand.”

Dean takes a breath, closing his eyes momentarily and leaning back against the doorframe.

“You can’t just absolve me of all this shit, Cas,” he says lowly, speaking to the ceiling. “I know you know that. I’ve got a lot to answer for, both pre and post black eyes. And I try to take a step back from myself and like… _look_ at what kind of human fucking being I am. Some kind of fuckin’ self-awareness, y’know? Like I’m actually learning something from the decades of bullshit my life turned out to be.” He finally drops his gaze back to Cas’, holding it steady. The power of it reminds Cas of what happened between them all those years ago in Zachariah’s green room, Dean’s gaze possessing no less magnetic energy now than it did then. Like he’s been from the start, he’s captivated.

“I’m gonna be carrying this with me for the rest of my life,” Dean continues matter-of-factly, “There’s nothing that’s gonna change that now, not after all this time. And I know there’s stuff you feel guilty about. Some of it I probably don’t even know about, some of it way before my time, I’ll bet. Some of it I’ll probably never even know. Or understand. But the thing is… You’re always trying. And I don’t believe in karma or any of that bullshit, but I think that counts for something. I think the universe gets it.” He drops his eyes again, this time to his hands that he’s wringing. “ _I_ get it,” he says, barely loud enough for Cas to hear. “And I know you’re always getting kicked in the ass for it, and it’s not much, but you should know that I notice. That I see you, always trying to be better. And it… um.” He swallows. “It means a lot to me, which is like, understatement of the century. That someone like you would even be remotely interested in saddling yourself with someone like me.”

Cas tries to say something, but instead finds himself reaching for Dean’s hand again. He holds one of Dean’s hands in both of his, raising it to his mouth and kissing Dean’s palm reverently. Behind his ribcage, his heart keels.

“I love you,” he breathes into the lifeline of Dean’s palm. “And as you would for me, I would share your load.” His voice is low and melodic. Dean lets out a startled laugh.

“Did you just-” He stops himself, awed. “Are you aware you just quoted Led Zeppelin at me?”

Cas allows himself a sheepish, almost-smile.

“I spent a lot of time in the car this year,” is his explanation.

Dean stares at him for a second, then lets out another incredulous snort of laughter. He steps forward, pressing his mouth to Cas’.

“I never said thank you,” he murmurs against Cas’ lips, close enough Cas can feel the words like they’re coming from his own mouth. “Thank you. For everything.” Dean kisses him again, not giving him a chance to respond.

They finally make it into the room fully, Dean shutting the door behind them with his foot, unwilling to break the kiss. Cas tries to follow the pace Dean’s set, but he finds himself kissing harder, more desperate with each press of their lips. Dean follows suit, the only discussion between them their similarly labored breathing. Cas manages to thrust his hands between their torsos, yanking at the buttons on Dean’s shirt as he undoes it roughly. He tosses it somewhere towards the corner of the room, then shrugs out of his own shirt, letting it fall in a heap to the floor behind him.

When the back of his calves hit Dean’s bed, he immediately sinks onto it, Dean following him eagerly. Under his firm grasp, Dean’s hips are broad and warm, the expanse of his pale torso covered in random spattering of freckles, though the majority of them tend to congregate most ardently on his shoulders and across the bridge of his nose.

Dean kisses his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his ears, and in a surprisingly tender gesture, his forehead. He moves downwards from there, gently sucking his way down the line of Cas’ neck, his mouth hot and rough against the stubble Cas hasn’t bothered to shave in almost a week. His name slips off Cas’ tongue more than once, unbidden. Dean leans him back until he’s lying flat on the bed, Dean hovering over him and watching with an expression Cas can’t make out in the semi-darkness of the room.

There’s a subtle shift in the air, one Cas can’t quite catch the taste of. Dean leans back down, sealing his mouth over Cas’ pulse point, and Cas gasps out, his fingers pressing tighter into Dean. Dean’s lips move against his neck, and Cas thinks it’s possible he’s mouthing something against his skin, though he can’t make out what it is.

Their hips are rolling together, Cas in worn down jeans and Dean in a pair of ratty sweatpants. Even through the layers of material, Cas can feel Dean pressed against him, heavy and hot. A shudder reverberates through his entire body at the thought, and he arches off the bed as Dean moves lower, dipping his tongue into the divot at the base of Cas’ throat. His lips move again in a strange formation, and Cas brings one of his hands from Dean’s waist to lay flat against his back. Dean’s warm, warmer than he realized.

“Dean, are you alright?” he murmurs into the darkness.

Dean stills for a moment, and in lieu of answering, gently runs his teeth along Cas’ collarbone.

Unsatisfied, Cas fits both hands to cup Dean’s jaw and draws him up the length of his body again, bringing their lips back together. Dean kisses him with an unexpected vigor, one hand threaded in Cas’ hair and the other pressed to the mattress. He runs his tongue along the seam of Cas’ lips, catching his bottom lip in between his own. He tastes slightly different than he did before, and it catches Cas off guard. As he’s about to ask again if he’s alright, Dean captures him in a head spinning kiss that completely waylays him, working his way down his body once more.

Dean’s lips continue to move against his skin. As he kisses down Cas’ chest, as he mouths at Cas’ nipples and his ribcage and his hipbones. He’s flooded, absolutely incendiary, one hand tangled in Dean’s hair. With his other hand, he gropes around on the bed until he finds one of Dean’s hands, and before he can even make a move, Dean has interlocked their fingers and is holding Cas’ hand so tight it’s almost desperate, like he’s terrified Cas is going to rip it away. It reminds Cas of his own grip on the Continental’s steering wheel any number of times over the past couple of months, terrified and white knuckled as he crossed the country in search of Dean, constantly dreading either what he would find, or what he wouldn’t.

“Dean,” he says quietly, gently squeezing Dean’s hand to get his attention. “Dean, you’re okay.”

Dean doesn’t acknowledge that he’s heard, he just continues on. He presses a reverent kiss to Cas’ chest, and he finally vocalizes what he’s been pressing into Cas’ skin this whole time.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Dean-” Cas starts, but Dean simply moves down a couple inches, kissing him again.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, the words barely a whisper. His voice shakes a little. He’s still holding Cas’ hand with a near death grip, and Cas is just a moment away from grinding everything to a halt, when Dean switches positions and kisses him again, this time just below the ribcage. He doesn’t know what it is, if it’s instincts or just his ability to read Dean, but something tells him not to stop this. The desperation in Dean’s apologies is telling, and Cas just somehow knows that this is something Dean needs, that he feels like he has to atone for.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

Cas takes his hand out of Dean’s hair, searching for his other hand. As soon as his fingertips brush Dean’s knuckle, Dean grabs hold. He’s on his knees in between the vee of Cas’ legs, bent over Cas’ torso with his fingers slotted together with Cas’. He kisses Cas just above his bellybutton.

“I’m sorry.” His breath hitches, and Cas realizes what he tasted on Dean’s lips was salt. He’s crying.

Cas squeezes Dean’s hands.

“I’m here,” he promises. “I’m here, Dean.”

Dean inhales shakily, kissing Cas’ hipbone.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“I’m here,” Cas says. “You’re okay, Dean.”

Cas doesn’t know for sure how long this goes on, but the pauses between apologies grow shorter and shorter and Dean’s voice becomes thicker and thicker, and Cas fights harder and harder against to urge to stop it, despite the tears now pricking at the corners of his own eyes. He hopes it’s helping. He hopes, here in the dark and with a hand to hold, Dean may be able to let some of his misery go. He hopes his presence aids in holding any impending misery at bay.

The darkness presses in around them, and it doesn’t take long for Cas’ torso to become wet with tears.

Eventually, Dean presses his forehead to the softest part of Cas’ stomach.

“I’m sorry.” His shoulders are shaking now, and Cas can feel where his jaw is trembling against his abdomen.

Cas holds back his own onslaught as he rubs his thumb along the back of Dean’s hand.

“You’re safe,” he promises, and he’s not sure how well he’s hiding the catch in his own voice. “You’re safe and you’re loved, Dean.”

Dean sucks in a shuddering breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he manages to get out one more time before a sob wracks his entire body. He holds onto Cas even tighter.

Dean sobs into the softest part of Cas, their hands still intertwined.

***

For the first little while, Cas sets up his new room on his own. He spends hours figuring out the proper sunlight to water ratios his plants need and which seeds will do best in which pots, trying not to dwell too much on how easily he could know these things if he were still an angel. He couldn’t necessarily talk to plants when he had his grace, but he communed with them in a way he can’t anymore. He understood what they needed on an almost inherent level.

Now he’s in a position where he can only do so much, and then simply cross his fingers and hope for the best. It’s a tenuous position, but one he’ll have to get used to.

The autumn chill is well on its way to winter, and eventually Cas has to stop leaving the window cracked while he’s working. He wonders if the sun of a Kansas winter is enough to sustain his plants throughout the season.

Plants aren’t the only thing he adds to the room. He spends time with Dean and Sam at thrift stores, browsing the used furniture sections. Dean finds him once, examining an old desk.

“I’m no Michelangelo, but I could probably make you one better than that,” he offers, in that gruff way of his that substitutes for shyness.

“You don’t have to do that,” Cas tells him.

“I want to,” Dean says firmly, then immediately stutters over himself, “I mean… only if you want me to want to.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says quietly.

Dean accidentally ends up shooting himself in the pinky with the nail gun during construction, and at one point nails Sam to the wall by his shirt ( _completely_ by accident, he stresses to an unbelieving Sam and a Cas who’s trying to keep a straight face), but in the end, he presents Cas with a roughly made desk that makes Cas’ chest swell with emotion.  

“What about the chair?” Cas asks when Dean presents it to him.

Dean’s smile slips slightly.

“Well, if you want I could probably make-”

“I’m kidding, Dean.”

Dean makes a face, but laughs anyway.

“Wow.”

Cas shrugs. “I’m trying to hone my sense of humor.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

They stare at each other for a moment, both grinning slightly, and Cas runs his hand over the surface. Texture is still a concept he’s getting used to with such tactile fingers.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, and watches in fascination as Dean’s cheeks color slightly.

“It’s not much,” Dean mumbles, looking away, but Cas gently steers Dean’s gaze back to him with a finger on his jaw.

“It _is_ ,” Cas insists. “It’s very much.” He kisses Dean carefully, lingering.

They haven’t put a word on the thing between them. Cas isn’t sure if there is one. More often than not, he spends his nights in Dean’s room now. He’s there when the nightmares strike, and though he can’t banish them with a simple touch to the forehead anymore, he offers what comfort he can. Dean’s told him that his presence helps, on the nights when the room is especially dark. Dean is better at confessing things in the dark, Cas has learned.

Just a few nights ago, he turned to Cas. Despite not being able to see it, Cas could feel Dean’s gaze on the side of his face.

“The night in Marshalltown that Barakiel asked you to kill me,” Dean had said by way of beginning, then stopped, as if afraid he was starting a conversation with a sleeping participant.

“I’m not asleep,” Cas informed him. Then, “Yes, I remember.”

“Well… Before that, I was talking to Hannah in her office. About you.”

“I know,” Cas said. “You’ve told me this.”

“Yeah, well, there was something I left out.”

Again, he seemed to be waiting for Cas to say something.

“Okay,” Cas prompts.

“I asked her… uh… if there was anything going on between the two of you.”

Cas wondered if even though Dean couldn’t see him, he could feel his eyebrows raise.

“Hannah is- _was_ \- my co-worker and friend,” he said, feeling regret ripple through him at having to switch to the past tense. “Neither of us was interested romantically in the other.”

“No, I know,” Dean said, almost sounding embarrassed. “She said that, just in a very old-school-you kind of way.” He let the statement hang there for a moment, as if gathering some kind of deep seated constitution. On the tail end of a deep breath, he blew out, “She said something like you had already ‘pledged’ yourself to another? I dunno if that’s some kind of angel gibberish or if under all those blazers she’s been hiding romance novels but-” As soon as Cas laid a hand on his arm, he stopped rambling, and Cas could feel the tension rolling him off him like it was a solid mass.

“Dean,” he said, “I would never question your intelligence, but how on earth could you ever have believed she was talking about anyone other than you?”

Dean was silent for minute.

“Oh,” he finally said. “Um… okay.” He leaned forward and Cas is still pretty sure that he meant to kiss his mouth, but ended up missing and kissed one of his nasolabial folds instead. (Later, Cas would remind himself that they were more commonly referred to as “smile lines”. The concept was strange to him, if only because the majority of smiles produced by this body hadn’t come from its current occupant. He does hope to remedy this, however.)

Tonight, Dean finds him in his plant room. He hovers in the doorway awkwardly.

“You don’t have to wait for my permission to enter,” Cas says mildly as he focuses on packing dirt around the base of a spider plant. Google informed him these plants are very difficult to kill, and Cas is going to do his best not to prove himself an outlier in this situation. Rebelling against the entire heavenly host, outlie away. But he’d rather not be responsible for killing a plant he’s tasked himself with keeping alive.

“It’s your room,” Dean tells him as he walks over to where Cas is, two steaming mugs in hand. He sets one of them down on the counter beside Cas. “Tea.”

Cas straightens up, wiping his dirt covered fingers on his jeans. His gaze flits between his mug and Dean’s, which looks suspiciously like it contains the same liquid as his own.

“You’re drinking tea?” he asks.

Dean holds his mug a little closer to his chest, a little offended.

“I can drink tea,” he says.

“Of course you can,” Cas says. “I just didn’t think you chose to.”

Dean taps his thumb against the ceramic handle.

“I dunno,” he says, like he’s trying not to make a big deal of it. “You seem to like it, so I figured I’d give it a try.”

Cas tries to hide a smile. “Last I recall, you described tea as ‘the more boring version of hot water’.”

Dean snorts, clinking his mug against Cas’. “Shut up and drink your hot water.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, cupping his hands around the mug. “For the company, as well.”

“About that, actually…” Dean trails off. He swallows nervously. “Look, Cas, this is your space and you can do whatever you want with it. But if you ever want or need any help with any of this stuff, I’m happy to-”

“Yes,” Cas interrupts. “I’d love that.”

“I don’t have much of a green thumb, but I figure an extra set of hands would-”

“Yes,” Cas repeats more firmly. “I’d love that.”

Instead of continuing to justify his answer, Dean just nods.

“Okay,” he says, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Together, then.”

They drink tea in companionable silence, Cas moving back and forth between his plant and his mug. He can practically hear Dean’s panicked internal monologue about germs.

As he’s just finishing with his spider plant, Dean says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Cas picks the plant up by the hook that it’s going to be hanging by, and starts searching the room for the exact spot he’d like to put it.

“I’ve asked you this before, and I’m gonna ask you one more time right now, and then I’m never going to bring it up again, okay?”

Cas slows at Dean’s tone, putting the plant down and turning to face him again.

“Okay,” he says, wary this time.

 Dean takes a deep breath, staring hard out the window for a moment. Cas figures this is the real reason Dean came to find him tonight, and judging from the looks of him, Dean’s been trying to work out how to say whatever it is for a long time.

“I just wanna know… I just wanna hear it from you,” Dean says. “I have to know.”

“Okay,” Cas repeats. Something uneasy stirs in his gut. Something tells him he knows what Dean’s about to ask.

Dean takes his gaze from the window to the ground, then finally steels himself and looks Cas right in the eye.

“Tell me that you weren’t lying,” Dean says quietly. “Tell me that it was impossible for your grace to fully cure you, and that you didn’t give it all up just to save me.” He watches Cas, the plea in his eyes naked.

Cas marvels at the concept of growth. There’s the room they’re standing in, from neglected closet to novice conservatory. There’s his spider plant on the floor beside him, resilient to even the most heavy handed gardener. There’s Dean in front of him, as beautiful as ever but somehow still becoming more beautiful by the day.

Angels were never meant to grow. To change. They were made to follow a strict set of guidelines, sent down a linear path with only one possible end. They were made to be uncompromising. Inorganic. Of course, those were the blueprints. But there was a flaw in the design. Because Castiel happened. Because Anna happened. Because Lucifer happened. Because Hannah happened.

Cas wonders if what he’s about to say to Dean- the lie he’s about to tell, the lie he’s been preparing himself to tell- can be considered growth. He’s convinced himself this lie will save Dean from himself. That if Dean were to blame himself for Cas permanently losing his grace, it would add another card stacked on an already unsteadily high pile.    

Dean is always looking for reasons to hate himself, and Cas refuses to give him one more. Either way, Dean will probably be able to tell if Cas is lying. Cas isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse.

Cas will make peace with this lie, if it ensures Dean’s happiness. Or at least if it doesn’t detract from it.

This truth may go unsaid between them, but the love Cas feels for Dean will not. He will carry this burden for Dean.

“I wasn’t lying,” he says.

He can tell Dean doesn’t believe him.

“Okay,” Dean says.

He can’t tell if Dean is thanking him or not.

Cas picks his spider plant up again, gesturing with it.

“Would you like to help me figure out where to hang this?” he asks.

For a moment, it’s like Dean is looking right through him. Then, he comes to and smiles, and it’s all directed at Cas. Dean’s smile lines are his own, and Cas makes sure to wipe all the dirt off his thumb before he traces it, from the side of Dean’s nose to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the pad of Cas’ thumb lightly. “I would.”

**Author's Note:**

> so that was fun. im probably gonna be writing gross fluff for a while after this. 
> 
> (title was taken from [this version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_r-Pr3JD6E) of the song of the same name)
> 
> i'm [here](http://saltyfeathers.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if u wanna come deancas & chill


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